The Siren's Call
by through-the-eye-of-a-needle
Summary: 'But other-times, you are met with closed shutters and a haughty, defiant glance, daring you to dig their secrets out of them, piece by piece.' Modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

Her heels click on the station forecourt like staccato drum-beats and there is the taste of flight on her tongue. Free, she is free. They have flown away like birds on the wing from a gilded, pain-filled cage, and how giddy it makes her.

Her daughter's feet scuff tiredly alongside her. "Are we almost there yet, Mummy?"

"Yes, Sylvie," Kitty Vincent – no, Trevelyan now – says. "Almost there. Can you spot a taxi for me?"

"Where are we going?"

"Our new home, remember? I told you all about it. It's our adventure."

Sylvie perks up at this, and Kitty takes her warm, sticky hand. The anonymity of the rush-hour crowd is beautiful – here, they are just mother and daughter, arriving in Glasgow for a reason no-one needs to know. People push past, running for trains that light up orange on the displays, trains north, south, east, west, trains everywhere, coming and going. She's always thought stations are junctions to a different life, and how right she is.

"Look, there's a taxi," Sylvie points, and they begin to run towards it before some other newly-arrived visitor snags it away from them, laughing as they bump into other people. This is what life should be like, Kitty decides. This is what life _will_ be like from now on, no rules, no walking on cracking eggshells, no watching every step she takes to make sure the ground will not crumble into an abyss if she looks away. It's wonderful.

The sullen taxi-driver loads their one suitcase into the boot of the car. "Where to?" he mutters. The seats smell of cigarette smoke.

"Norfolk Street, Gorbals," Kitty replies. "Put your seatbelt on, Sylvie."

The taxi pulls out into a lane of traffic snarled like a spider's web, and, once free of the station, shoots off down the grey Glaswegian street.

This is where it begins.

* * *

He is woken by the dripping of rain from the eaves and a bird singing painfully outside his window. Eight o'clock. His shift begins at ten. There's no point trying to entice Morpheus back, so he pushes himself upright, his joints cracking like an old man's, rubbing sticky sleep from his eyes.

The kitchen floor is cold against his bare feet, and he tries to be as quiet as possible as he makes toast and finds a clean shirt. The slightest touch of sound will jolt Miles awake, and Thomas doesn't particularly want to be the subject of his friend's morning mood today.

Nine o'clock, time to get to work. He makes sure he's got everything he needs, and tip-toes out of the flat, shutting the door carefully behind him and turning, his car-keys jingling like bells.

There are footsteps, on the stairs, and thena womancomes into view and the breath escapes his lungs in a whoosh of wind.

There are raindrops tangled in her hair like diamonds, and a little girl clutching her hand.

Sometimes, when you see someone for the first time, when your eyes touch theirs, stories unfold below the colour, histories and love-stories, war-stories and fairy-stories all laying themselves bare for you. But other-times, you are met with closed shutters and a haughty, defiant glance, daring you to dig their secrets out of them, piece by piece.

He steps aside, and she passes, the little girl looking over her shoulder at him. And then she opens the flat next door with a key from her pocket and slams it shut behind her, leaving unanswered questions tugging at his mind like twisting ropes.

Shaking his head, he makes his way down the stairs. Patients to see, people to talk to. He's got no time for things like this.

* * *

"Can I have this room?" Sylvie bounces on the big bed, up and down like a little jack-in-the-box, all the tiredness evaporated by the heat of her excitement.

"If you like," Kitty puts their bag onto the desk, looking around her. The landlady said that it was furnished, everything provided and it's a relief. She wouldn't want to have to buy new furniture on their first day here.

"Can we share it?"

Kitty smiles indulgently. "Yes, why not? Are you going to explore whilst I unpack?"

Sylvie slides off the big bed and into a giggling heap on the floor. Kitty opens their small carry-on, thinking about the man they saw on the stairs – a fellow resident of this block, perhaps, or a visitor – she can't stop thinking about how blue his eyes were, like the sky just before night falls. It crackles across her brain like electricity and _she came here to escape. _Not to think about the first handsome man she saw – God knows she's seen enough handsome men in her life and they are all, without exception, assholes.

"Go on." She swats at her daughter with a pair of jeans, and Sylvie disappears through the door.

She finishes un-packing to the soundtrack of Sylvie running through the flat, opening and slamming cupboards in the kitchen. Then there is silence, before the inevitable, "Mummy, I'm hungry! When are we having breakfast?"

"Soon, darling," Kitty calls, shutting the door of the wardrobe and sitting down on the bed for a second, suddenly drained. Now that they're here, she doesn't know quite what to do. She supposes she'll have to enrol Sylvie in a school somewhere, and find herself a job, though she hasn't even the first idea of how to go about it. She certainly can't go back to modelling, even if she wanted to.

Sylvie appears in the doorway. "Come on!"

Kitty pulls a smile from somewhere inside herself, standing up and taking her coat. "I'm coming."

* * *

When he gets back from his shift tired and grumpy from a day of arguing with one of the more senior surgeons, Miles is in the kitchen and the smell of burning fills the air like a thick, smothering smog. At a raised eyebrow, Miles shrugs. "We have new neighbours. I wanted to bake something to welcome them to Norfolk Street and well…"

"So I can see," Thomas says irritably, throwing his briefcase onto the table and sinking into a chair. "Let's hope they like burnt offerings, then."

Miles prods at the blackened mass on the baking tray cautiously, as though it will suddenly grow fangs and bite him. "Should we just buy something from the corner shop?"

"You can, if you want."

"Was Yelland getting at you again today?"

Thomas starts at the question, shaking his head at Miles' uncanny ability to discern what is bothering him. "What do you think?"

"Just report the bastard, and then you won't have to put up with him all the time. Look, this is hopeless. I'm going to the corner shop to get some biscuits or something. Do you need anything? More cigarettes? A bottle to drown away your sorrows?"

"I'm okay."

"Are you sure…"

"Miles," Thomas gives him a look, pinching the bridge of his nose where a headache is starting to throb. "Kindly, bugger off. I'll salvage the mess here."

"Okay," Miles nods, and then he's gone and the door is shutting behind him. Thomas groans and slowly lowers his head to the table. Damn Yelland, damn Miles' appalling attempt at cooking…damn _life._

* * *

At about seven, there is a knock on the door. Kitty's heart immediately lurches in her chest as though it is running from pursuing hands, and her hands ball into fists. It can't be Elliott – no, he can't have found them yet! He's overseas, in America, and they stole away like thieves in the night for a reason…if he's found them…

"Mummy, can I answer the door?"

"No, Sylvie, let me do it," she says, trying to slow her breathing. A fork lies on the table from she and Sylvie's dinner – a take-out affair from the Spice Garden by the river – and she stuffs it into the cuff of her jumper, rising from the sofa. Sylvie stands in the hallway in her pyjamas, hopping from foot to foot.

A fork is no protection, but she'll use anything to keep her beloved daughter safe.

She pads carefully up to the door, putting the chain on and opening it just a crack so that the fluorescent lamp blinds into her eyes. Two figures are silhouetted there. One is holding something.

"What do you want?" she demands, hostile as though they've come with spears and swords at the ready, a marauding army here to steal Sylvie away from her…

"We're your neighbours," the shorter of the figures says, holding out the something like a peace offering. "We just came to say hello."

She blinks and unlatches the chain very slowly. They make no move for the door, and that gives her the confidence to pull it wider so that she can see them properly, her eyes darting to the second, mutinously silent person.

_Shit._ It's the man from this morning, the one whose glance burned into her chest and left her so breathless, so helpless, like a fish tossed from cool water to parched land…

"Mummy, who is it?" Sylvie is hopping impatiently behind her, and Kitty sighs, opening the door even further.

"It's our neighbours, Sylvie," she says. "Do you want to come and say hello?"

Sylvie nods, and Kitty turns back to the people in the hall, standing across the doorway so they don't get any impressions that she's acting out of anything but politeness. "I'm Kitty," she says, shortly. "This is my daughter, Sylvie."

"Hello, Sylvie," the shorter man says. "I'm Miles, and this is Thomas. We've just brought you this." He pushes a wrapped package into Kitty's hands. "If you need any company, then we're just next door."

Discomfort at the flirtatious edge to his tone roils in Kitty's stomach like a sick bug, and she nods briskly. "Thank you very much. I've got to get Sylvie to bed – goodnight."

She barely hears the murmured goodnights before she slams and bolts the door, her legs trembling. The package in her hand is sticky against her sweating palms.

"Mummy?"

"Go and brush your teeth, little monkey," she says, and Sylvie disappears into the small bathroom.

It's the first time in as long as she can remember that anyone's ever been so nice, and it's terrifying.

* * *

**A/N Important! **Well, hello again, people. It's lovely to see you all back - welcome to the first chapter of 'The Siren's Call.' This is my Modern AU, and I hope you like it. On a side note, I am away - with no access to my computer - until next Wednesday, so you can count this as a little teaser to whet your appetite for the rest of the story. As ever, reviews make the sun shine, so click that little button! I'd love to hear from you! N xxx


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

"Yes, I know, but he keeps running away…you've got to send him back when he comes home…yes, yes, I understand…" The woman behind the glass waves a hand at Kitty to wait as she enters the school reception, tugging a reluctant Sylvie behind her.

"Mummy, why do I have to go to school?"

"Because, Sylvie," Kitty says firmly, trying to harden her heart against her daughter's dark eyes that glisten with the rain of tears. "It's the law. You have to go to school, and Mummy has to work. You can't stay at home all day."

"The neighbours can look after me…"

"No, sweetheart. They've got jobs, they'll be too busy. It looks nice, here, though doesn't it? Much nicer than your old school."

"I don't want to come to school at all," Sylvie says mutinously, letting go of Kitty's hand and crossing her arms.

"Sylvie, behave," Kitty says. The woman behind the glass puts down the phone.

"Hello, how can I help you?"

"Hi, I've come to enrol my daughter. I spoke to the Head Teacher on the phone a few days ago."

The woman nods, and smiles down at Sylvie through the glass. Kitty breathes a sigh of relief. It's so comforting that here, no-one knows who she is, no-one knows who she's married to, there aren't cameras following her every move like gold and black bees swarming viciously around a hive.

"Of course. I'll buzz you through. Mr Brett will be out shortly."

"Thank you," Kitty murmurs, putting a hand on Sylvie's shoulder and guiding her through the doors swing open when the receptionist presses the button. There's a little hallway, and Kitty sits down on one of the grey-cushioned chairs slowly, tucking her ankles behind each other neatly – a habit from the days of being drilled in deportment by her own mother. Sylvie climbs into her lap.

"Mummy…"

"Yes, Sylvie?"

"Why is it the law for people to go to school?"

"It's so you can learn to read and write, darling, and do maths. And then when you're older you choose where you want to work, and have a happy future."

Sylvie considers this for a second, leaning her head against Kitty's shoulder. "Have you had a happy future?"

"Yes, I will have a happy future," Kitty kisses her daughter's hair. "Here with you – what more could I ever want?"

There is the scrape of wooden door on carpet, then, and Sylvie hides her face against the softness of Kitty's jumper. Kitty can feel her daughter's heartbeat thrumming against her own.

"Miss Trevelyan?"

"Yes, that's me," she says, turning around to see an aging man in a suit, lines creasing back and forth across his brow like folds on a piece of paper. His smile is kind.

"Please, do come in."

"Thank you. Come on, Sylvie." She tries to deposit her daughter on her feet, but Sylvie has wrapped her legs tightly around Kitty's waist and refuses to move, a little limpet shell clinging tightly to the rocks at the seashore. Kitty sighs, and carries her into the office which is cloaked in shabbiness – the paint is peeling a little and the stuffing is falling out of one of the chairs. Papers are scattered everywhere like snowflakes cast about in a storm.

"Please excuse the office," the Head Teacher says distractedly, moving two folders so that she can sit down. "We keep meaning to have it re-done, but the extra classroom and the new books are more important, so it keeps getting delayed. Do have a seat."

Kitty sits down with Sylvie still on her lap. The Head Teacher settles himself in his own chair, closing down a window on the computer and turning to face her. "Welcome to St Francis' Primary School, Miss Trevelyan and…" he looks towards Sylvie.

Kitty nudges her. "The nice gentleman wants to know your name."

Sylvie shakes her head. "Her name's Sylvie," Kitty says, trying to keep the rising irritation in check. "She's being shy."

"That's alright. I'm the Head Teacher, Mr Roland Brett."

"Pleased to meet you," Kitty extricates a hand from Sylvie's death grasp to shake his. "Katherine Trevelyan."

"Well, Miss Trevelyan. Your daughter would be joining us in Primary 2, since she is six, I believe?"

"Yes, that sounds right."

"Have you brought the documents that we talked about on the phone?"

"Yes," Kitty rummages in her handbag, pulling out the little plastic file and handing it over. Mr Brett looks through it for a second, and nods.

"That all seems in order. There will be a few forms to fill out and suchlike, but to start with, would you and Sylvie like to come and meet the lady who'll be Sylvie's teacher?"

"Yes, we would, wouldn't we, Sylvie?"

Sylvie looks from her to Mr Brett, and then nods unsurely, her eyes darting about like a little bird.

"Alright." He stands up, and holds the door for them. "Follow me."

Sylvie's classroom-to-be is across a playground painted with brightly coloured lines, and Mr Brett opens the door just as the children line up on the other side of it. "Ah, morning interval already," he says, standing aside to let a woman with two little girls holding her hands lead the children out onto the playground, the line disintegrating into clumps as the boys run off to play football, and some of the girls gather near where two teachers are pulling skipping ropes out of a shed at the far end.

"Please, come in," Mr Brett breaks Kitty out of her thoughts, and she steps across the threshold. Sylvie's arms are a vice around her neck. "This is Miss Flora Marshall – she's the teacher of Primary 2b."

Flora Marshall is a very young looking woman with a smile that beams out of her face like sunlight. "Very pleased to meet you," she says, holding out a hand for Kitty to shake.

Mr Brett turns to her. "This is Sylvie Trevelyan and her mother, Katherine."

"Hello, Sylvie." Flora Marshall says, stepping closer. "Do you want to come and help me unpack the new dressing up clothes that arrived for the play?"

Sylvie looks from Kitty to her new teacher, uncertain.

"Go on," Kitty says, putting her gently on the floor. Flora Marshall takes Sylvie's hand, and leads her over to where several boxes are stacked behind the teacher's table. She watches as Flora Marshall slits them open with a pair of scissors, and begins to pull things out to show Sylvie, dresses in all shades of emerald and ruby, and turbans studded with plastic gems that wink as she turns them over in her hands.

"Miss Marshall is running the school play this year," Mr Brett tells Kitty. "It's an adaption of some of the stories from Arabian Nights."

"That sounds lovely," Kitty purses her lips as she watches Sylvie slowly begin to thaw. It's a change, from the beautiful brick buildings, strict teachers and elegant headmistress of Sylvie's old school, but a welcome one, hopefully. No more pretences.

"Well, we'll see how it goes. Shall we leave them to it? I'll get the forms for you to sign…"

When Kitty returns fifteen minutes later, Sylvie is talking away happily as Miss Flora Marshall tidies away the dressing up clothes. Panic flares in her chest – stupid, stupid, stupid! Sylvie could have unknowingly said all number of things to her new teacher, could have said that they'd come from London, who her father was…

"Look, Sylvie, your Mummy's here," Miss Marshall says brightly, and Sylvie weaves her way past the tables to wrap her arms around Kitty's legs.

"You're happier," Kitty remarks, schooling her face into calmness. It's frightening, how quickly the mask slips back into place over her features, frightening how easy it is to conceal her emotions from anyone who might be looking. It's her shield, her expression of relaxed boredom, the one that protects her from prying eyes and malicious whispers, and she knows only the worst of blows get through it.

"She was telling me all about the school play she was in before you moved here. A nativity. It sounded lovely."

"It was," Kitty nods, relief flooding like monsoon rains into an empty oasis, remembering how she'd had to keep her coat on to conceal the bruises blooming, purple and black, manacles around her wrists. So Sylvie hasn't said anything that could compromise them. "We'd better be getting home, Sylvie. Say goodbye."

"Bye," Sylvie says, taking Kitty's hand.

"See you tomorrow!" Miss Marshall calls as they walk away across the playground. As Kitty shuts the school gate behind them, and they begin to make their way up the grey streets, Sylvie looks up at her.

"I like Miss Marshall," she says. "But I still don't want to go to school."

"Tough," Kitty squeezes her hand. "You're going."

* * *

**A/N **Sooo, I'm back! Here's the next update! What do you think of Sylvie's new school? This is more of a filler, but the next one should be up (hopefully) before the weekend. Enjoy! N xxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

The next morning, after dropping a tearful Sylvie at school, Kitty stands in front of her neighbours' door, thoughts whirling in her head like the bright lights of a fairground carousel, doubts nagging at the corners of her brain. Should she ask them?

She doesn't want to seem weak. She's perfectly capable of getting herself a job…but she isn't. She laughs quietly, bitterly. Look at her – running away, barely qualified, the money from her father's trust fund hidden away by her husband…

She takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

* * *

The knock on the door jolts him out of his reverie where he's been sitting and staring into space, trying to formulate the words and ideas tangled like a spider's web in his head into a coherent article. He gets up, slowly, closing the lid of his laptop. For once, Miles is at work and he is not, so he pads towards the door, trying to stifle the yawn that rises insistently in the back of his throat.

As he pulls the door open in a protesting of hinges that one of them really needs to get around to oiling, he freezes. Their neighbour is standing there, dark hair pinned up, tapping her foot restlessly.

"Hello," he says, when it is obvious she is not going to elaborate as to why she's here. "What can I do for you?"

There is something flickering in her dark, dark eyes behind the shutters that hang a little open. A blush is creeping across her cheeks. "I need to find a job," she says, abruptly.

He raises an eyebrow. "And how exactly am I supposed to help with that?"

The flush grows more pronounced. "I don't know where to start. I thought you or your housemate might have some ideas." She's looking away, refusing to meet his eyes, the words tumbling out of her as though she wants to expel them out into the air, to get rid of the taste of them from her tongue. He watches her for a second – he's busy, and he could easily send her away with a brusque dismissal, but he's curious.

"Well," he says, turning. "You'd better come in."

* * *

Their flat is a study in contrasts. Neat stacks of papers stand in complete juxtaposition to whirlwinds of cushions, blankets, medical journals and DVDs that lie scattered across the sofa.

Her neighbour, Thomas, looks at her over his shoulder, his blue eyes undermining her defences and making her legs feel weak. "I would apologise for the state of the flat, but that is Miles' mess and not mine."

She raises a silent eyebrow, balling up her hands that are sticky with nervous sweat as she follows him into the kitchen that is a mirror-image of her own. He moves a heavy-looking tome from one of the chairs and motions for her to sit down.

"Tea? Coffee?"

"No, thank you." She glances over at the stacks of paper on the table – titles packed with complicated-looking words, diagrams scattered through the text. "Are you a doctor?" The words slip out before she can stop herself.

He sits opposite her, pulls a half-finished mug of coffee from beside the laptop that lies closed like a very shiny rock. "Yes, I am."

"What kind?"

He shrugs. "A surgeon. I'm writing an article on complications of cardiac surgery_._"

"Sounds interesting."

"Yes, it is. So what kind of job are you looking for?"

She hates feeling helpless. "Something to support Sylvie. I don't know."

"Well, what do you like doing?"

Art, she wants to say. Art. Photography. Being the power behind the camera instead of the vulnerable model exposed before it. "I don't know."

"Surely you must enjoy something?" He is sceptical.

"I do…it's just more of a hobby. I need something that will pay the rent. I don't necessarily have to enjoy it."

"That's stupid," he scoffs. "You have to find a job you like doing or you'll go mad."

"I can manage."

"What did you do before you came here?"

"That is none of your business." She stands up in a screeching of the chair legs on the linoleum floor. His hand shoots out to catch hers, and she flinches, sure he's going to hit her and the memories start to unwind like a roll of photographic film and no, no, no…

"Are you alright?" His voice breaks into her head, sending her fear scuttling away as though it's a terrified spider, and she's staring into those blue eyes that spark into hers like static charge.

"I've got to go."

She bolts for the door. He makes no move to stop her.

* * *

She ends up at the Co-op in Crown Street, mopping the aisles and manning the tills five days a week, but when the money coming in is still too little for their rent and food, she takes up weekend shifts at a café, leaving Sylvie colouring in the back room as she ferries coffee and cake to and from the customers seated at the little checked tables. It's still not enough, but the money's her own, which is more than she'd ever dreamed of having.

The problem, however, is Sylvie. How do other women, other single mothers, manage work and children all at the same time? It's wearing her thin, working endless shifts under her two bosses, and then having to dig a brittle smile from inside herself when she collects Sylvie from after-school care. It's not fair on her daughter to spend her weekends sequestered in the corner of the café's kitchen with nothing but a pad of paper and a small pack of colouring pencils with which to amuse herself.

But even so, she soldiers on, turning a deaf ear on her daughter's complaints. Anything is better than their old life.

* * *

November falls down on them in a scattering of rotting leaves and a chill that laces itself through the air. Kitty is waiting at the school gate – on time, for once – in the woollen designer coat she brought from the time before, aloof from all the other parents who stand in little groups, huddled into anoraks.

The nearby church strikes three o'clock, and children flood out of the classrooms in a tidal wave of noise. She spots her daughter's small, dark head next to the very fair one of her friend Julia.

"Mummy!" Sylvie runs to her, thrusting her blue book-bag into Kitty's arms.

"Where's your coat, Sylvie?" Kitty asks.

"I don't know." Sylvie looks at her with wide, dark eyes. "Can I have dinner at Julia's house?"

The other little girl has appeared by Sylvie's shoulder. "Please, Miss Trevelyan?"

"I suppose," Kitty says grudgingly, hurt sinking like a stone into her stomach. She's off this evening, she was looking forward to spending time with her daughter, watching a Disney film and eating take-out pizza from Sylvie's favourite place. "Tell your Daddy I'll pick her up at six o'clock."

The two run off, and Kitty trudges into school, wondering why her daughter doesn't seem to want to spend time with her anymore.

* * *

Flora Marshall is tidying up the little chairs and tables of her classroom, thinking about home, a hot bath, and her boyfriend's latest letter when there is a quiet knock on the half-open door.

"Come in," she calls, distractedly, pencils spilling out of her grasp in a clatter of graphite and stripy wood. "Oh, Miss Trevelyan – how can I help? I'm so sorry about the mess. They were having Golden Time and it just flew away with us…"

"Has Sylvie left her coat in here?"

"It's probably around here somewhere, though I don't actually remember seeing her bring it in this morning…"

There is silence, and then a quiet sob splits the air. Flora turns away from the table, dropping the pencils on the floor. Tears roll down Miss Trevelyan's cheeks like molten silver and she's slumped against the doorjamb like a toy thrown to one side by an angry child. Flora hurries over, pulling out a chair for her to sink into and wrapping a comforting arm about her shoulders.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"I'm a hopeless mother!" The words burst out of the older woman, venomous, tinged red with self-loathing. "I can't even remember to give my daughter her coat to take to school, let alone provide for her, oh what was I thinking?"

"Look, it can't be as bad as that," Flora says firmly.

Miss Trevelyan continues as though she didn't hear her. "And now she doesn't want to spend time with me. She's rather be with Julia Singh, or her friend Mathilde and I'm so scared, so terribly scared…"

The words stop, abruptly, like a fountain that's run out of water and she's turned her face away, is wiping the tears from her face with the sleeve of her own coat. "About what?"

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm not scared of anything, I'm just being stupid. Really."

"Okay." Flora sits back on her heels. "So what are you going to do about this?"

"I don't know. I work two jobs to make enough money to support her, and I can't pick her up from after-school care or anything like that…"

"Do you have neighbours who could?"

"Yes, I do…I wouldn't want to inconvenience them, though."

"You should ask, anyway. Would you like me to come with you?"

"Would you? I don't want to be a burden…"

Flora looks at her, long and hard. "I'm a school teacher. It's my job to look after the kids in my class, and if that includes their families, well, it includes their families too."

* * *

They stand together outside the flat, Kitty twisting her hands together as Flora, calm and confident, knocks on the door. What if _he's _in? How can she face him after what happened last time, with her abject fear so visible on her face and her secrets playing out in the dark mirrors of her eyes?

But the door creaks open, and it's not him, it's the other, Miles, who beams like a sunny day. "Hello!"

Kitty doesn't reply, pushing her hands into her pockets. She's perfectly capable of…no, she's not.

"Hi, you must be Miles – Kitty's neighbour?"

"That I am."

"I'm Flora Marshall. I teach at St Francis Primary. Might we come in?"

"But of course," he steps back with a sweeping hand gesture. "Do come in. Tom – our beauteous neighbour has decided to grace us with her presence!"

He appears in one of the doorways, hastily smoothing down his hair. "Miles, I've got to get to work."

"It'll only take a second." Flora says. She glances pointedly at Kitty, who swallows down the ball of nerves lodged in her throat.

"I'm juggling two jobs at the moment, and I can't pick up Sylvie from school every day. I was wondering if you could help, since I don't want to impose on her friends' mothers much more than I have to." She clamps her mouth shut, an embarrassingly bright blush creeping stealthily across her cheekbones.

Miles and Thomas look at each other. "Sure," Miles says. "We'd love to help."

A flicker of irritation crosses the surface of Thomas' eyes like a shadow across a puddle, but he nods. "Yes, of course. I'm late, so if you'll excuse me."

The door slams shut behind him, and Miles sighs. "Don't mind him. Work is stressing him out. Tea?"

"No, thank you, I've got to pick Sylvie up." Kitty turns to go, but then remembers herself, her manners nagging at the inside of her head. "Thank you, very much."

"You're welcome," Miles smiles. "See you tomorrow, then."

* * *

**A/N **Enough Kitmas for you all? What do you think of this chapter? I'd love to hear from all of you who read it - perhaps make it up to fifteen reviews before I post chapter four probably on Monday? N xxx


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

Darkness creeps across the horizon like a spy as Kitty tiredly makes her way up to her floor, her head spinning from stacking shelves all day. She pauses outside her neighbours' door, steels herself, and knocks. Thomas opens it, and she looks away, determined not to meet his eyes.

He stands back and lets her in without a word.

"Where's Sylvie?"

"Just finishing The Lion King. Would you like a drink?"

"A glass of water would be great, thank you."

He disappears into the kitchen, and Kitty steps into their sitting room. Her daughter's dark hair sticks up from the sofa opposite the TV. Credits roll up and up the black screen. "Hello, sweetheart."

Sylvie's face appears over the back of the leather cushions. "Mummy!" she says, holding out her arms. Kitty laughs, and scoops her up and onto her hip.

"How was school?"

"Good," Sylvie nods. "We were singing, for the play, and I got to dress up in my costume."

"That's exciting," Kitty brushes a kiss to the top of Sylvie's head. "I'm really looking forward to seeing your play. How was coming home with Thomas and Miles?"

"Only Thomas picked me up," she rests her head against Kitty's shoulder. "I had a banana."

There's the sound of footsteps, then, and she turns to see Thomas standing awkwardly at her shoulder, a glass of water in his hand. "Here," he says.

"Thank you."

Sylvie begins to wriggle, and Kitty sets her on her feet. "Why don't you go and get your book-bag and coat?" she suggests.

"Okay." Sylvie disappears into the hallway in a muffled pattering of feet, and Kitty turns to Thomas.

"How was she?"

"Fine. Very chatty on the way home, and then was quite happy to sit and watch the film." He pinches the bridge of his nose as though he's in pain. "Miles says he's happy to mind her on weekends, if you like. Take her swimming and things."

"That would be great. Thank you so much for doing this."

"It's nothing."

They stand in a stiff, proper silence, Kitty still avoiding his eyes when Sylvie reappears. "Are you ready to go home, little monkey?"

"Yes."

"What do you say to Thomas?"

"Thank you," Sylvie says.

"See you tomorrow, Sylvie."

As they leave, she feels his gaze burning into her back, but she doesn't turn. She can't get herself into complications. Not now.

* * *

They settle into an odd routine. Kitty drops Sylvie off in the mornings before work, and picks her up after, takes her home where she sits and chatters like a blue-and-gold macaw as Kitty prepares dinner, and slowly, slowly, she lets her neighbours begin to chip away at her armour. If Sylvie is watching something, she'll wait in the kitchen with Thomas or Miles and a cup of tea, talk a little bit about work. It's amazing, listening to Thomas talk about what he does – his eyes light up and it's as though he's an illustration that has stepped off the page of a storybook and into real life.

Often, she has to stop him and get him to explain the words he uses without a second thought. He doesn't seem to mind, though often Miles has to jump in with an easier explanation.

December begins to dawn, and one day, Sylvie turns to her as they come into their own apartment. "Mummy…"

"Yes?"

"It's my birthday soon."

"I know."

"Can I have a party?"

"What sort of party?" Kitty hangs up her coat on the hook by the door and takes Sylvie's, the purple and pink mac sliding across her fingers.

"A princess party, because I want a princess dress for my birthday."

"I think we can manage that." Kitty smiles down at her daughter – in all honesty, she's been expecting a request like this, seeing as Sylvie's birthday present is already wrapped up and hidden away at the back of the wardrobe. "Shall I get a bit of paper and we can talk about it over dinner?"

"Yes," Sylvie says, following her through the door and climbing into her chair at the kitchen table. "Can we invite Thomas and Miles?"

"I think they might be too busy, but you can ask them if you like." Kitty washes her hands, the smooth soap gliding over the calluses that are forming from hefting crates around at the supermarket.

"Will you dress up too?"

"Of course I will. Do you want to write down who you want to come?"

* * *

He doesn't quite know what to say. Whenever his two sisters had princess parties when they were little, he'd always vacate the house or hide down at the park with one of his friends, only returning to scavenge leftovers when all of the guests had left at the end. But Sylvie stares up at him imploringly, and Miles has already agreed.

"Okay, then," he gives in, and Sylvie wraps her arms around his waist.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

He pries her off, trying not to smile.

"Do we have to dress up?" Miles asks.

Sylvie nods enthusiastically, and there is a mischievous gleam in Miles' eyes. Thomas groans. "I'm regretting agreeing to this now."

* * *

The morning of the party dawns bright and sunny, and Kitty is up with the gold-fingered dawn, baking in the kitchen. She used the discount she gets on the co-op food, and the bags of crisps and fruit are all in the cupboard. She made most of the sandwiches the night before, and now, the cake sits before her, a bare, plain sponge, surrounded by bowls of icing and sweets. The sketch is in front of her, long lines of charcoal forming the shape that she wants.

Classic FM fills the air softly, and she begins to sculpt the cake, praying that nothing will go wrong.

* * *

There is music playing through the open door, and pink balloons bobbing gently up and down outside Kitty's flat. Thomas adjusts his crown irritably. "I look ridiculous."

"No, you don't, you look perfectly dashing. You can take it off once you're inside."

"Good," he grumbles.

"Tom, cheer up. It's Sylvie's birthday."

"I know, I know."

"Just make an appearance. Then you can go and sulk."

"I am not sulking. I'm working."

"Work, sulk, what's the difference? Come on, we're going to be late."

Miles steps forward and knocks on the doorjamb. A door opens somewhere in the house, and then Sylvie is squealing down the hall towards them, a flounced, purple and gold princess dress bouncing out behind her. "Miles! Tom! Do you like my dress?"

"Hello, Sylvie," Miles says, crouching down to her level and handing her the wrapped present. "It's beautiful. Did Mum get it for you?"

"Yes," Sylvie grabs his hand and reaches out to take Thomas' too. "Julia's here, and Mathilde, and Caitlin and Poppy. Come on!"

She drags them happily into the sitting room, where several other little girls sporting dresses in different colours dance to the music blaring from an IPod docking station. Miles is immediately pulled into the middle of the circle, and Thomas stifles a laugh as Sylvie bosses him about.

The door the kitchen hangs slightly ajar, and as the strains of 'Let it Go' begin to play, he makes his escape, closing the door behind him. Kitty is standing at the sink, and he stops dead. She turns, freezes.

Gone are the faded jeans, carefully buttoned shirts; the look of professional 'mum' that she wears so well. A dark red dress, lace at the top, cascades to the floor in layers of fabric that float as she relaxes, takes a step towards him. A silver children's tiara glitters against her dark hair. "Hi."

"Hi." He pauses, trying to form a coherent thought in his head, trying to supress the urge to pull her close and kiss her senseless. "You look incredible."

She blushes. "Thank you. I like the crown."

He pulls it off, puts it on the side. "Miles."

"I guessed."

He folds his hands awkwardly behind his back. "Is there anything you need help with?"

She frowns, surveying the table that is set with pink plates and glasses, food spread out, foil platters piled high with sandwiches, and packets of crisps crinkling in their bowls. "I think that's everything. I was just going to start the party games. Where's Miles?"

"Sylvie kidnapped him."

"Okay. Well, do you want to control the music and I can play with the girls?"

"Okay." He manages a smile, and she reaches past him to open the door.

Three other girls have arrived, and he hastily beats a path to the chair by the IPod, settling into it and stopping the music. They work their way through musical bumps, musical statues and musical chairs, and he cannot take his eyes off Kitty, bright eyed and beaming in the red dress that swooshes to the floor as she laughs with the children that cluster around her.

Eventually, Kitty announces that dinner is ready, and there is stampede of glitter and crowns as the seven little girls crowd into the small kitchen, sitting at the table and snatching at the food, chattering away happily. He stands by the sink, glass of water in hand, watching as Miles pours out pink lemonade and Kitty hovers with a camera hanging around her neck, taking pictures of the girls smiling.

When there's only fifteen minutes left of the party, she comes over to him. "Do you mind turning out the lights?"

He nods, and then she's gone and the room is dark, only lit by candles that Sylvie blows out enthusiastically. He switches the lights back on, and Sylvie is cooing over her cake, a round, pink carriage with swirling white wheels and a mouse coachman.

"Where did you get it?" Miles asks, curiously.

"I made it," Kitty says.

"You made it?"

Two spots of embarrassment burn high on her cheeks. "I like doing that sort of thing."

"Kitty, it's amazing! You could set up a business in cake-decorating!"

"Thank you," she bites her lip, turns away to pick up the cake and bring it over to the side where a knife lies, its sharp edge glinting in the light flickering from the bulb overhead. The doorbell rings, then, and she turns to Thomas. "Will you get that please?"

He nods, and pads down the hallway, draws back the bolt and opens the door. A stern-faced, blonde woman waits there – a stern-faced blonde woman that he recognises all too well. "Hello, Matron Singh."

"Dr Gillan, what are you doing here?" she asks, confusion furrowing lines into her forehead.

"I live next door, babysit Sylvie sometimes. She invited me and my flatmate to help her mum."

"Okay," she says, and he shuts the door behind her, leading the way into the kitchen where Kitty is carefully cutting up the cake. At the sound of their footsteps, she turns, her dress rustling.

"Grace," she says, managing a smile. "Always on time."

Matron Singh crosses the room to her side. "This is a wonderful cake – wherever did you learn how to decorate like that?"

Kitty flushes again. "I just taught myself, I guess."

Matron Singh shakes her head. "Julia's cakes always turn out a little on the sloppy side – my husband and I have never quite got the hang of it."

"I could maybe do one for Julia's birthday? It's at the end of January, isn't it?"

"Would you? I'd pay for the ingredients and things."

"Of course. She's in the other room if you want to go and fetch her."

"I'll go," Thomas says, and Kitty smiles brightly, directly at him, before turning back to Matron Singh. Why can't he control his feelings?

Why?

* * *

**A/N **Well, hello again. Another update. What do you think of Grace being Grace Singh in this story? And Sylvie's princess party? I'm putting a photoset on my blog to show my inspiration for this chapter, so feel free to look at it over on Tumblr. I'd love, love, love to hear from you all - next update is Wednesday morning! N xxx


	5. Chapter 5

**Five **

Flora Marshall has never been so busy in her life. She teaches, during lessons, then at break times, she's running around the school, checking how far Year Six have got with learning their lines, making sure the art teacher has almost finished painting the scenery, talking to the music teacher about how the band is getting on.

When the day of the play finally dawns, she's completely exhausted, but still manages to smile and read her class a story at the end of the day, before hurrying down to the hall to help put chairs out for the evening's performance. It's got to go well. It has to.

The evening falls in drapes of dark blue velvet, and she assists the children in getting into their costumes as the chatter of parents fills the hall. She's more nervous than most of the children are, but she hides it well, adjusting tops and billowing trousers, and whispering encouragements as the prelude music starts and the choir of all the little ones take their seats on the benches at the front of the stage.

All she can do now is clench her fists and pray.

* * *

Kitty is sitting near the back of the hall with Grace Singh and Mathilde's father, Jacques, when silence swoops down on them and the play begins. There are moments, where some of the older children forget their lines, and when the scenery turns too quickly, but for most part, her eyes are fixed on Sylvie, in a gold-coloured dress, singing earnestly from the middle row of the choir. And at the end, when everyone rises to their feet in a roar of applause, pride tugs at her chest because it's been three months since they arrived, three months and Sylvie has settled and they are part of life here, now, part of life when before, they were only prisoners, looking out through the decorated bars of their painted cage.

When Sylvie comes weaving her way through the crowd after it's finished, Kitty pulls her into a tight hug.

"Did you like it, Mummy?"

"Darling, it was wonderful."

* * *

Flora is tidying away the props on the stage, when someone clears his throat behind her. She turns, rubbing a hand across her eyes tiredly, and the figure smiles. "Hi, Flora."

"Charlie?" she breathes. He nods, and she begins to beam, her tiredness evaporating like a puddle under the smile of the sun. "You're here – how are you here?"

"Got back early," he shrugs. "Surprise."

She launches herself into his arms, and he holds her close, kissing her until her head begins to spin. "Did you like the play?"

"Yes, I did."

Across the hall, she can see another young man embracing Mr Brett. Charlie follows her gaze. "That's Freddie, his son – you remember?"

"Yep," she turns her gaze back to the stage, holding Charlie's hand tightly. "I can do the rest tomorrow. Shall we go?"

He smiles, and loops his arm around her shoulders, and they bid goodnight to people as they leave the hall, buoyancy filling her with every step. He's home. He's safe. Life is good.

* * *

The Christmas holidays bear down on them, and Kitty begins to plan presents. She's been saving, and she has enough to get Sylvie a few little things, and perhaps a box of chocolates for her neighbours or something. On the second-last day of term – seven days before Christmas – she is home from work early, and goes straight next door to pick Sylvie up. Thomas opens the door, distracted-looking and as though he hasn't slept for a while.

"Where's Sylvie?"

"She said she was going home with Mathilde Tillens tonight," he says. "I thought she'd cleared it with you."

"No, she hadn't." Irritation winds itself behind her eyes. "It's fine. Thank you."

He gives her a brief smile, and shuts the door, and she turns back towards her own flat, wondering at the way she feels his presence like an ache somewhere deep inside her. She unlocks her door, and steps in – a light glows from under the sitting room door. Surely she can't have left it on this morning? Electricity is expensive, and she doesn't have any money to spare for stupid mistakes.

Sighing, she dumps her keys on the little table in the hall, opens the sitting room door and stops dead.

"Katherine. I was wondering when you would be home."

She can't move, she can't speak, she's frozen to the spot like she's been confronted with Medusa's head and turned to stone. She feels sick. How has he found them? How did he get in here? How, how, how?

He stands up from the sofa, steps towards her and she starts to back away, trembling uncontrollably. "It took an inconvenient amount of time to find you, I must admit. Hiding in plain sight was a clever move. You've always been good at it, haven't you?"

"Where's Sylvie?" She forces the words out through gritted teeth. "What have you done with her?"

"Sylvie is perfectly safe." He keeps walking, and she keeps retreating, out into the hallway, until her back is against the wall like a fox cornered by hunting dogs. He steps closer, closer and she can barely breathe because of the coldness of his eyes and the nausea rising in her throat.

He takes her wrists, almost gently, then slams them against the wall, pinning her down as though she's a butterfly secured to a dissecting board. She starts to sob in fear, she can't help it, she can't move, she can't run…no, no, no…

"You do know that you have committed an offence, I hope? Kidnap is against the law, Katherine."

"I did not kidnap her."

"Oh, but what will a court say? The mother takes her child away from its loving family unit," he digs his nails in her wrists, and she's feeling faint, spots are dancing before her eyes and the fear is drowning her, drowning her… "And disappears. How would that look to an upstanding jury?"

"You can't."

"I can, and I will." He presses himself closer and closer, and she can't breathe, she can't move, no, _no…_

"What do you want?"

"Sylvie. You, back in your rightful place."

"Never." She gathers the tattered shreds of her courage and spits in his face, wriggling free and making a dash for the front door that stands silently open. "THOMAS! MILES! HELP ME!"

"They won't come," he says. "Not for a bitch like you," and then his hands are around her waist, throwing her to the floor and she feels something crack and pain shoot and twist up her arm. She screams again, and it's no use, people aren't going to come and help her, Tom will have left for his shift and who knows where Miles is…Elliott advances, inexorable as the tide, and pulls her upright, pushing her against the wall again, and she's helpless, so helpless and he's laughing cruelly and

"Step away from her right now, or I call the police."

The voice, the harsh Scottish accent, makes her shake with relief.

"This is private."

"Step away from her _this instant._"

He only laughs again, and Kitty sobs, but then he's gone and she's slumping to the floor in crumpled heap of tears and pain, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers Thomas letting go of the back of Elliott's suit, balling his fist as if to take a swing.

"You wouldn't dare." Elliott drawls lazily.

"Get out, or I will."

"Tell him what you've done," he calls. "Then see if he's so willing to protect you."

"GET OUT!"

There is rustling of material, and then the door slams shut and Thomas' arms are around her, cradling her with a gentleness she never knew existed. "Ssh," he says. "Ssh, he's gone. He's gone. It's alright. It's alright."

"No, it's not," she chokes out. "He's got Sylvie."

* * *

**A/N Important! **I'm going away on holiday for a week, in a coastguard's cottage that has doubtable wifi, so whilst I won't be updating, I'm unsure as to whether I'll be able to reply to your reviews. But I promise that I'll update the second I get back next Tuesday. And it would be so amazing if you could maybe get me to thirty reviews? Pretty please? And also - I'm struggling with a way to fit Joan and Anton into this story, so any ideas, please drop me a review and let me know! Enjoy! N :) xxx


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

He holds her for a long time, there on the hallway floor, as she sobs and sobs into his shirt, trying to make his anger dissipate into the air. All the times he imagined holding Kitty so close, he'd never dreamed it would be like this, rocking her back and forth as she weeps with unanswered questions running rampant in his head. Who _was _that man?

Eventually, she sits up, disentangles herself from his arms, cradling her wrist to her chest.

"Let me see," he says, gently, and she looks away, hissing a little as he takes her wrist. It's swelling, and there is a pattern of bruises and red scratches already forming around the base of her hand. "I think you've broken it. If we get you settled in the kitchen, I'll find something for a sling, okay?"

She doesn't move, so he carefully takes her good arm and pulls her gently to her feet, supporting most of her weight as he helps her into the kitchen, into a chair at the table. He boils the kettle to make tea, heaps sugar into the mug and puts it in front of her. "I'll be back in a second."

When he gets back with one of her t-shirts in his hand, she's still sitting there, staring into space with the tear-tracks drying on her cheeks. There's a terrible blankness in her eyes, no flicker of anything as he kneels opposite her. "Look, Kitty, you've got to drink the tea. It will make you feel better."

She picks it up mechanically, avoiding his eyes. Takes a sip and puts it back down again. He sighs, and picks up the shirt, fashioning it into a sling about her injured wrist. "We've got to get you to a hospital, and I've got to phone my hospital to let them know I can't make my shift."

"I don't want to."

"Kitty, you've broken your wrist. You've got to get it looked at."

"You can."

"I don't have any of the equipment here. They'll need to X-Ray it, and put a cast on."

"I want Sylvie." Her eyes fill with the silver of tears again.

"I know, Kitty, I know."

She subsides into silence, and he makes his call, explaining that there's been a family emergency in brief, terse words. A little white lie won't hurt anyone. "Right, come on."

She stands up, and follows him without a word.

* * *

When they get back from hospital, quiet, at that time of the evening, with Kitty's arm protected by thick, white plaster, Miles is waiting for them at the doorway to their own flat. "I…" he starts, "Kitty, what happened?"

Thomas shoots him a warning look, leaning across to unlock the door to Kitty's flat and gently usher her in. I'll tell you later, he mouths. Miles nods, follows them in.

"Are you okay staying here alone tonight?" he asks Kitty. She nods.

"Sure?"

Another nod.

"Okay, we'll see you in the morning, then. If you need anything, come and find us."

A third nod, and then he takes Miles' arm and pulls him out, shutting the front door carefully behind them.

* * *

She goes into the bedroom, sinking into the softness of the mattress where only last night Sylvie slept, curled up like some sort of cat, her breath whistling past the hair that stuck up at every odd angle. Sylvie. Pain drags itself through her chest, and then she's weeping again. Sylvie. Sylvie.

* * *

"Tell me," Miles says, dumping a cup of coffee unceremoniously in front of Thomas. He stares at it for a second, then blinks, looks up.

"What?"

"What happened? How has she broken her wrist? Where's Sylvie?"

Thomas rubs a hand across his face, tiredness tugging at the backs of his eyes. He briefly considers telling a lie, but no, that's not right. He can't lie, not to Miles. "I was getting ready to go to work," he says, the words burning the back of his throat. "And then I heard screaming, from next door. The door was open, so I went in and…in the hall…there was this man. He had Kitty by the throat, up against the wall and I pulled him off her. He said some things, and I made him leave."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know. Kitty was in no fit state to tell me. The only thing she could say was that 'he's got Sylvie.' She'd broken her wrist, so I took her to the Victoria Infirmary to get it looked at."

"Did you phone the police?"

"No, I didn't."

"Tom, it could have been a kidnapper, it…"

"It wasn't."

"How do you know?"

"I just," he pauses. "I just have this feeling that Kitty knew who it was. It wasn't some random person off the streets…it was someone she knew. I don't know who, though."

"God."

Thomas closes his eyes, resting his head in his hands. "What do we do?"

* * *

In the morning, he finds her sitting against the headboard of her bed, staring into space with Sylvie's princess dress crumpled and tearstained on her lap. He makes a plate of toast and tea, and perches on the edge of the bed.

"Have some breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"Kitty, you've got to eat."

She shakes her head. He sighs, and puts it down on the bedside table. "It's there if you want it later. How's your arm? Do you need more painkillers?"

"I'm fine."

He doesn't push, though the questions must be so evident in his expression, spreading across his face like floodwater. She looks at him, dully.

"You want to know who he was, don't you?"

"Only if you want to tell me."

She fiddles with the hem of Sylvie's dress, ducking her gaze. The white plaster cast is so blatantly white against the fadedness of the bedroom that he keeps looking at it, then noticing the way her loose hair falls about her face in a tumble of midnight-coloured curls.

"He was my husband," she says, as softly as a breath of wind. "Is my husband."

The anger is sudden, furious, makes his vision tremble and a metallic taste rise in his mouth. Husband. Her _husband. _How can that be – how can a husband treat his wife in such a horrific way? How can a husband…

Kitty is looking at him, again, and he pulls himself together sharply, taking a deep breath and clenching his fists. He has to control himself. He takes a deep breath, and another, then forces himself to stand. "You've got your fracture clinic appointment in an hour or so. I'll be by to pick you up."

"Okay." Her voice is a monotone, and she looks away. "See you."

* * *

He and Miles fall into a habit of dropping by every couple of hours – him whenever he's not asleep or writing, Miles in the evenings when Thomas is at work. He calls in to both of her jobs, and tells them she's sick, but it can't go on much longer. She sits, in the same position, all day, every day, her cast – now a yellow one – cradled in her arms, her unwashed hair falling over her shoulders, staring into space with blank eyes that do not see the world around her.

"Here, look," he says, the day before Christmas Eve when he comes to see her, holding out a plate of pasta.

"I'm not hungry."

"Kitty, you can't keep going on like this."

She doesn't reply. Her arms are thinner than they were before, there's a pallor creeping across her face and it makes him remember, it makes him scared. "Kitty, you have to eat."

"I said, I'm not hungry."

His control snaps.

"Katherine Trevelyan, eat. Now."

She starts at the loudness of his voice, stares up at him, a battle of wills turning the air red. Then finally, she nods, and takes the plate.

It's the first victory.

* * *

They invite her to spend Christmas with them, but she doesn't want to. She just wants to be alone, sitting and going through the gifts that would have gone under a tiny fake Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. It wouldn't have been much, but they would have been happy.

Why did he have to take that away from them?

She remembers the Christmases when she was a child, her loud, buoyant father tossing her up in the air, her mother, prim, proper, uninterested, seated a safe distance away on the divan as Kitty tore the wrapping paper from her presents and her baby brother gurgled from his pile of toys nearby.

She puts her face in her knees and begins to cry.

* * *

After taking a few days off for Christmas, going to the other side of the city to see his family, he receives word that his shift has been swapped again and he's working daytimes, nine until five instead of seven until two. It's a relief – night shifts are more taxing than any other – and he throws himself back into his work, using it to distract himself from the misery stretching itself out like a tragic play in the apartment next door. She's still fragile, brittle, and there's nothing he can do to piece her back together, not like the people beneath the surgical paper and anaesthesia that can be helped so easily.

And, of course, there is the problem of Yelland.

At first, it was snide comments, to do with Thomas' mother – God knows how the bastard got hold of _that _– and his family situation, but Thomas ignored those like a duck ignores water, but then it got worse. Jabs at his surgical skill, little insinuations that resulted in more observations than usual, messing around with his paperwork and confusing his notes so that he's late more and more.

Miles tells him to report Yelland, but he won't. The man's just an idiot with a superiority complex, and to report him means that he's won.

So Thomas battles onwards, trying to forget about lifeless dark eyes and the knife that twists in his heart every time he comes in to see her hastily wipe away the pearlescent traces of tears.

* * *

**A/N **Hi there again! I'm sorry you've had to wait so long for this - I've been in a little coastguard cottage with absolutely no Wi-Fi whatsoever, but never fear, I have been writing and updates will come pretty smoothly now. Thank you to Kate for reviewing, and thank you all for your lovely ideas about Joan/Anton. I may fit them in here, or I may write a whole story about them on their own, perhaps. Review! N xxx


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

One evening in early January, there is a sharp knock at the door – so much louder than Thomas' or Miles' quiet entrances. Kitty ignores it, but then there is another knock, and another, a torrent of knocks falling through the air, so she gets up and trudges down the hallway to open the door. It's Grace Singh.

"Hello," she says. "Can I come in?"

Kitty stares at her for a second, and Grace uses this as consent, stepping over the threshold and shutting the door behind her. Her eyes linger on Kitty's cast for a second, before Kitty turns and leads her silently into the kitchen. She's learnt from experience that Grace is as stubborn as a locomotive engine – there's no use trying to make her leave.

"Where's Sylvie this evening?"

The words cut deep into Kitty's chest, and she stares at the older woman for a second, before turning away. "She's gone to stay with her father."

"Will she be back in time for the start of term?"

The words twist through Kitty's ears, and then she's crying again, hunched over and trying to hide it behind her loose hair, but she can't, and then Grace's arm is wrapped around her shoulders. "What's the matter?"

Kitty draws in a shaky breath. "Nothing."

"Kitty, this is not nothing. What's wrong?"

There is something gentle in Grace's grey eyes, something that she never really expected to see from Sylvie's best friend's mother, who has been polite, and quite friendly, but never _kind_, not in the way someone like Flora Marshall who throws sweetness about a room like a cloud throws snow down upon the earth.

"My husband…he's…he's taken Sylvie away, and he's not allowing me to see her…"

"Your husband?" A bewildered expression flits across Grace's face before she conceals it, taking Kitty's free hand.

"Would you know if I said that up until late September, I answered to Katherine Vincent?"

"Your husband is Elliott Vincent?"

Kitty nods, biting down on her lip to keep her feelings from spilling out. "I suppose everyone in Britain has heard of him."

"Well, I have to admit that I only know of him because my nurses make it a habit to know all the celebrity gossip there is to know."

Kitty pushes her hair behind her ears and wipes the tears from her face with her sleeve. "I…I ran away, with Sylvie. We couldn't stay there because, well, because…"

Grace looks down at her broken wrist, and then up, answers forming in the greyness of her eyes. "I think I can guess why."

The words spill over her lips like sunset, tinged with desperation.

"I just…I don't know what to do! Miles and Tom have been so wonderful in supporting me since he took her, and I know I'll never repay them, but I just don't know what to do! What do I do?"

"File for a divorce," Grace says firmly. "Fight for custody of your daughter. If, God forbid, Amar and I ever ended up in a similar situation, I would be fighting tooth and nail to keep Julia and Raj. I wouldn't be sitting here looking like a wet weekend." She squeezes Kitty's shoulders gently. "Okay?"

Kitty gives her a watery smile. "Okay."

* * *

"Look who it is, our famous research surgeon! Had enough of experimenting yet?"

Thomas forces himself not to react as Yelland's noxious voice drifts across the meeting-room. Calm. _Calm. _

"You know nothing will come of it. Just think of all that NHS funding wasting because some idiotic boy from the council estates couldn't stay where he belongs."

There are several half-hearted titters at this, and Yelland looks smug. Thomas dumps his file on the table, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails make painful little crescent-moon indents in his palms. As much as he'd like to punch Yelland's teeth out, he can't risk getting sacked. It's not worth it, no matter how many reasons he comes up with to the contrary, so he lets the anger bubble away like a lava-pit in his stomach as Dr Purbright enters and settles himself at the head of the table.

Someday the volcano's going to erupt from inside of him, and no-one will be able to do a damned thing to stop it.

* * *

The station is almost empty at this time of day – gone are the floods of rush-hour commuters, serious men in serious suits heading out from their jobs in the city centre to their neat, sweeping homes in the countryside that falls away from Glasgow like a dream. There are no buffeting people as she and Charlie idly make their way to the platform, she begging her way past the people on the ticket barriers with a smile, hands entwined.

It's all gone so quickly, his leave, but at least he's not back out again for a while. He's only training, but that's in the south, in Dorset, a world away from snow-frosted Scotland.

"I'll try and come back up before the next tour," he says, brushing a thumb across her cheek. She manages a smile, straightening his beret.

"Okay. Write to me."

"I always do."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

There's an announcement blaring over the speaker, and he leans down to kiss her, winding his fingers through her auburn-brown hair, soft and gentle, and no, she doesn't want him to leave, not again, not this time…

He pulls reluctantly away, hefts his huge khaki rucksack up from the platform, and gets onto the train that idles, doors open, on the rails. He stands in the doorway until the very last minute, and she waves with tears trickling down her face because she wants him to stay with her forever and ever, for them not to be so separated like this…

The train draws out of the station, and she waits until it's completely out of sight, before turning and trudging back along the frosty streets. Another two months, another tour. Then he's promised he'll try and get out of active service, and perhaps she'll move down south with him, so they can be together. It's a thought.

* * *

When he gets home, there's a light shining under Kitty's door and a note on his kitchen table from Miles – something about a meeting with an old friend for dinner – so he dumps his briefcase in the chair and heads next door, knocking quietly and letting himself in with the spare key.

He finds Kitty sitting on the floor in her co-op uniform, surrounded by mountains of what look to be magazine cuttings and neat, glossy photos, her hair pinned up for the first time in three weeks. She looks up as she hears his footsteps on the carpet.

"Oh, hello," she says, and something starts to unfold in his chest because it is the first time she's greeted him on her own, no prompting needed.

"What's all this?"

"I'm exorcising memories." She pats the space beside her and he sits, awkwardly folding his legs beneath him. "I don't quite know why I brought them with me."

He plucks one from the top of the nearest pile, staring at it before realisation jolts through him. It's Kitty. So undoubtedly her, dark eyes glaring sullenly out of the flatness of the page, wearing a dress that looks to be made out of moss coloured _butterflies…_

"It's hideous, isn't it?" she says, leaning over his shoulder. "I can't believe that anyone designed some of these things with beauty in mind."

He can feel her warm breath on his cheek, her perfume, light and unobtrusive, winding around him, close, so close. "You were a model?" he asks, the first words he can think of. She sits back, the usual guardedness nowhere in sight.

"Among other things." Her voice is spiked with venom and she looks away, towards the window where a few, forlorn stars peer dismally through the clouds. "I hated it."

He stays silent, and she glances back towards him again. "I just always felt so exposed when I was modelling. I was trapped between the camera and the backdrop, and to top it all off they rarely let me wear _nice _things." She picks up another photo. "What do you call that?"

"Disgusting," he says without even thinking, and then they're both laughing and Kitty is pulling more and more pictures of her in horrendous outfits from the piles – personally, he still thinks that she's as radiant as the sun, even in a bizarrely asymmetrical combination of different animal skins – but he'd never say that, not when the first gate has opened and she's slowly letting him behind her defences.

Eventually, when they've exhausted the bad ones, Kitty sits back against the sofa, closing her eyes for a second. "Grace came to see me today."

"Grace Singh?"

"Yes." Kitty takes a deep breath. "She says I should file for a divorce."

She's looking at him again, cutting away his breath until he feels like some sort of whale floundering in too-shallow water. He forces himself to speak.

"So are you going to?"

She nods, a metal-tipped smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "What kind of mother would I be if I didn't fight for my daughter when I had the chance?"

* * *

**A/N **Thank you to Guest for reviewing! Here's the next one - it's really cloudy where I am at the moment, so click that little button - it will quite literally make the sun come out!


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

She downloads the forms the very next day after work, the pages and pages of forms, her details and _his _details, reasons for divorce – tick as many boxes as you like – and her hand shakes so badly as she selects 'Unreasonable Behaviour.' It doesn't even begin to describe the fear, the pain, the scars she wears on her back from his anger at fallen-through deals, but she supposes it will have to do.

Elliott won't give Sylvie up without a fight, she knows that as she sits at her kitchen table staring at the price. Four hundred and ten pounds. It's more than she can afford, she knows that, but there was something on the website about help.

She sighs, and folds the forms over. The sun is setting in a blaze of glory behind the blinds. Thoughts of Sylvie niggle in the back of head and she forces back tears. She's got to be strong. _She's got to be strong. _

* * *

"But why?" Flora stares at her aghast. Kitty fiddles absently with the bottom of her coat.

"Her father took her away from me. I've been trying to contact her, but he won't let me."

"God, Kitty, that's awful." Flora puts an arm around Kitty's shoulders, and Kitty feels an urge to shrug the heaviness of it off, but she doesn't, giving Flora a wan smile. The woman's only trying to help.

"I don't want anyone else to know, but as her teacher…"

"Yes, that's understandable. It's going to be hell trying to divorce someone so famous." Flora looks at the clock. "I've got to go, I'm afraid, break time is almost over, but if you ever need a shoulder to lean on, I'm right here."

Kitty gives her a grateful look. "Thank you. Really."

"What else are friends for?"

* * *

It takes a good week to string together the courage to drop the forms in at the solicitor Thomas and Miles have helped her to find, but by Friday, she's standing nervously outside the office, envelope clutched to her chest. She briefly considers turning tail and fighting for her daughter alone, but reality cuts that thought down like a scythe through golden crop. Elliott will use the best lawyers in England to argue his case, and she hasn't a hope against them. She takes a deep breath, the air whistling past her teeth, and pushes the door open in a jangling of the bell and steps into a neat smart reception with padded green chairs and a potted plant standing like a solider in the corner of the room. A young-ish man sits behind the receptionist's desk, clicking through something on his computer.

"Excuse me?" Kitty says, softly, and he looks up.

"Yes?"

"I'm here for an appointment with Miss Berwick?"

"Name?"

"Katherine Trevelyan."

"Take a seat. She'll be out in a moment."

Kitty sinks slowly into one of chairs, and a few seconds later a door creaks and a red-haired woman in a crisply folded suit is standing by the desk. "Miss Trevelyan?"

"Yes, that's me," Kitty stood, pushing her hair back nervously.

"Come in."

There was something odd in the red-head's expression as Kitty passed her, but when the door shut and she sat down behind the desk, it was all gone, wiped clean, and a professional smile was stretching her lips over her teeth.

"I'm Rosalie Berwick, but you may call me Rosalie, if you wish. You're Katherine, correct?"

"Yes."

"Have you brought the filled-out forms?"

Kitty pushes the envelope towards her, and Rosalie nods. "Good. Do you know the court process of getting a divorce?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't…the websites I read weren't wonderfully helpful with that aspect of it."

"Alright, so. You and I will go through these forms together and make sure that you've filled everything out correctly, then I'll send them off to the court to be processed. A copy will be sent to your husband for him to approve – that's a long process – and then that will be processed. After that, there'll be more forms on you and your husband's finances and any children you might have. You have a child, don't you?"

"Yes," Kitty whisper, biting down on her lip to keep the tears in. Even after all this time, the mere mention of Sylvie opens a tap somewhere inside her and she has to struggle to hold back the sobs intent on wracking her open from the inside and out.

"Has your husband shown himself willing to let you have custody?"

"No." Kitty wraps her arms around herself, somehow wishing that she'd dragged Thomas away from his report-writing to come with her.

"Alright," Rosalie lets her breath whistle into the air. "Well, I'm afraid we're just going to have to see what his reply is when the forms come back through. Shall we go through this?"

"Okay."

Rosalie opens the envelope and peruses the forms, checking addresses and phone numbers. Her finger stops at the reasons for divorce. "Katherine, you have to write an explanation as well. You can't just tick the box."

Something hitches in Kitty's throat, and she stares at Rosalie in horror. Write it down…no, she can't, she can't, she…

"Are you quite alright?"

"I…I…" Kitty forces herself to speak. "I can't."

"Can you tell me, then?" Rosalie's expression gentles. "It's just unreasonable behaviour covers so many different aspects, the judge will want to know exactly so he or she can tailor the proceedings appropriately."

Kitty nods, slowly. She has to be brave. She _has to,_ or she knows she'll never see her daughter again, just that simple. She closes her eyes for a second, and begins to speak.

* * *

When she gets back to the apartment block, she trudges straight into the landlady, Mrs Quayle, who gives her a smile. "Hello, Miss Trevelyan."

"Hello," she says dully, nodding and beginning to walk up the stairs.

"Oh, Miss Trevelyan, I'm reminding everyone that the rent's due tomorrow. Are you alright?"

"I'm good," Kitty lies. "Just tired. I've got an early shift tomorrow."

"Okay. Make sure you bring the rent by five o'clock."

"Yes, of course."

The rent. Kitty had completely forgotten, and she keeps her fingers crossed that there's enough in the bank account. She can't risk getting evicted, not with the divorce starting to get underway.

* * *

Thomas is sitting on his sofa – bizarrely – and staring at the TV screen where BBC News is playing on a roll. Kitty sits down beside him, wrapping her arms around her legs. "Hi," she says, and he turns his head to give her a brief smile before looking back over at the TV.

"Did it go well?"

"Relatively." She pulls at her ratty T-shirt. "Flora's coming over for dinner, in a minute."

"That's good."

"Where's Miles?"

"God knows. Meeting someone, I think. He's never in – must have a secret girlfriend or something, though it's unlikely that he'd manage this long without telling anybody."

"Or he's a spy, masquerading as a doctor."

"Miles, a spy?" Thomas snorts. "Un-bloody-likely. Perhaps he's run away to join the circus."

"And spends his time taming big cats and chatting up the trapeze artists."

"You know, I think he'd rather enjoy that."

"He would have been quite happy causing scandals in the Middle Ages," Kitty adds. "All that charm and no seriousness. The ladies would have been falling over at his feet."

"Don't tell him any of that. His ego is big enough as it is."

"Ah, but we think he's alright."

"Why else would we have kept him around this long?"

They look at each other again, and start to laugh, and somewhere in the back of her mind, little hands are holding tightly onto this moment because Kitty knows she never wants to let it go.

* * *

The next morning, Grace Singh pays a quick visit before work, already in her uniform with a brown envelope in her hand. "Hi," she says distractedly as Kitty opens the door, her co-op fleece hanging open like a gaping mouth. "I was just wondering if you remembered that conversation we had at Sylvie birthday party – about Julia's cake. Her party's next week, and I'm so busy…"

"Yes, I can make it," Kitty nods. "Do you want to come in?"

"No, I'm really sorry, I'm late. It's going to be a ballerina party, so something ballet based, and here's the money for ingredients and labour."

"Oh, Grace, you…"

"Yes, I did. I've got to dash – I'll see you next week."

With that, she is gone, and Kitty is left with the envelope heavy in her hand, wondering what on earth just happened.

* * *

**A/N **Okay, so, I'm really sorry for the wait, people. I just had quite a bit of research to do for this chapter and my Harry Potter muse was whispering in my ear, so I had to shut it away in a box to get it to shut up so I could write this. What do you think Miles is getting up to? And what do you think of Rosalie? It's a very grey day here where I live, and reviews literally make the sun shine, so click that little button! N xx

P.S. Thank you kayjay, for your review! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

The weeks tick over, and she works longer shifts, but ever since making Julia's cake, an idea has been niggling in the back of her head, an idea that makes her feel happier and happier with every passing day. Eventually, one evening, she broaches the topic with Thomas and Miles, home for once, as they talk over a cup of coffee.

"I'm considering setting up a business," she says when there is a lull in the conversation.

"What?" Miles says, staring at her. A flush creeps past her ears.

"I'm thinking about setting up a business."

"In cake-decorating?" Thomas asks.

"Yeah. It's just I did Julia Singh's cake, and several mothers have asked if I'd be willing to do the same for their children and…forget about it, it's a stupid idea."

"Kitty, no, it's fantastic," Miles enthuses. "It would be so much fun."

"How would you advertise?"

A rush of gratefulness for the two of them floods her, and she smiles, twisting her fingers around her mug. Steam wafts into the air in dense curlicues. "I'd ask Flora to see if she could put something in the newsletter, I guess."

"Get Grace Singh to tell people she knows about it," Thomas suggests. "The more people who know about you the better. How would you operate?"

"I think I'd put my address on the newsletter or my phone number, and then parents can phone me if they want to."

"It sounds amazing, Kitty," Miles glances down at his watch. "Oh, I've got to go."

"Secret girlfriend?" The words are out of Kitty's mouth before she even has a second to think about them, and Miles flushes.

"Well…"

"I'm sorry, you don't have to say anything if you don't want to."

"No, it's okay." Miles takes a deep breath. "Okay, I've been seeing one of the nurses at work for a couple of weeks now…"

"So that's why you're never in," Thomas interjects.

"Yeah, that's why I'm never in. I'm going to be late to pick her up." He turns and makes a dash for the door before their conversation can pull him back like a fishing net.

Thomas and Kitty look at each other for a second, stunned, and Kitty calls out, "Congrats, Miles!" as the front door opens.

"Thank you!" comes his faint reply, then there is a click and she and Thomas are alone, sitting in the kitchen.

"We were right," he says, shaking his head.

"I know," Kitty laughs a little, taking a sip of her coffee.

He leans back in his chair, regards her with those blue eyes that remind her of the time just after sunset, before the smothering blackness of night, pure, rich, sapphire blue, though she freely admits to herself now that Thomas' eyes make her heart race a thousand times more than the prospect of wearing expensive jewels for another interminable photo-shoot.

"There's another reason why you want to set up this business, isn't there?" he asks quietly, his voice gently tugging her out of her thoughts. She starts.

"Sorry?"

"There's another reason for this," he repeats, and she wants to lie, she wants him to think that her intentions aren't purely selfish, but the thought has been niggling at her mind, and she-has-told-too-many-lies-in-this-life-to-tell-another.

"Yeah," she exhales. "A single mother running a cake decorating business looks better to the courts than a single mother working two jobs with millions of shifts."

"It does. There's nothing to be ashamed of about it." He closes his eyes for a second. "Wait, I've just had an idea."

She nods. "Go on."

"Even when you're not doing birthday cakes, you could do some bog-standard ones and get the café where you work to sell them."

"Thomas – that's brilliant!" Kitty says, excitement suddenly leaping into her throat. She wants to hug him. "I'll talk to Joan tomorrow – I'm sure she'd like it, she's always after new ideas."

"My pleasure," he says.

Later on, she makes dinner round at his, and they settle down in front of a film, Kitty's legs tucked neatly underneath her and tiredness drooping her eyelids until the screen is blurred. When she finally falls asleep, there aren't any nightmares waiting to tear the corners of her mind ragged. There's only peace.

* * *

He looks down at her, curled up closer than she's ever been on the sofa, her head resting bare inches from his arm and a rush of tenderness surges through him. Kitty. She's nothing like his mother, he knows that, and yet he still worries. His mother was weak, there were cracks in her life that no amount of love and care could ever mend, but Kitty, Kitty is strong. There's steel running through her veins, holding her upright even in the worst of circumstances – he knows, he's seen her piece herself back together – and for the first time since the bastard took Sylvie away, the worry has vanished into thin air.

So he wraps his arm around her, and they both fall asleep like that, tucked into each other's warmth with the film credits rolling up and up and up the black screen.

* * *

In the morning, neither of them mention it. He makes breakfast, she doodles on a piece of paper. Miles shoots them pointed looks from above his morning coffee and they make small talk, diverting the conversation towards Miles' evening out.

His girlfriend's called Helen. She's a junior nurse in one of his wards, and she spent months pretending to be impervious to Miles' flirting, so when her defences finally crumbled, there's substance to the relationship. Neither of them have any intention of getting bored.

Thomas is thrilled. He'd just about had enough of Miles somehow managing to break hearts left, right and centre. It was all completely unintentional, just the way Miles was back then, but he still felt bad for the girls left standing in his friend's wake.

At nine o'clock, he's at the hospital, getting into theatre when he finds that _yet again _he has the wrong notes in his hand. Yelland. _Fucking Yelland. _Of all the times…

He takes a deep breath and makes himself tell an orderly to fetch the right notes. It's the last bloody straw. He's going to find a way to stop that bastard's meddling once and for all.

* * *

Kitty gets into work half an hour before she's due, slipping in through the open back door with her uniform smartly ironed and the pictures of Julia and Sylvie's cakes cold against her clammy palms. This is it.

Her boss, Joan, is sitting at one of the tables, doing inventories and Kitty hovers uncertainly at her shoulder for five minutes before Joan looks up. "Oh hello, Kitty. You're here early."

"I know." Kitty surreptitiously wipes her hand on the back of her black trousers. "I need to ask you something."

"You're not resigning, are you?" Joan's face crinkles in on itself. "You're one of our best."

The compliment makes pinkness rise to the tips of Kitty's ears, turning them the colour of raspberries, and she shakes her head. "No, I'm not."

"That's good. Sit down, you don't have to stand there like that."

Kitty does as she's told. "Joan…I have a proposition for you."

"Yes?"

"I bake and decorate cakes, and I'm going to be setting up a business down at St Francis' Primary School. I was wondering if I'd be able to sell some of my cakes here."

"Well," Joan gives her an encouraging smile. "What kind of decorating do you do?"

Kitty puts the pictures down on the table. "That's the cake I did for my daughter's birthday, and that's for her friend."

Joan is nodding. "You know we already have big cakes that people have slices of, but those are pretty damned spectacular if you'll excuse my French. Could you do fairy cakes, perhaps?"

"Yes, I'm sure I could."

"Well, the cookies aren't selling as well as I'd like them too, so how about we replace them with your creations for three or four weeks and go from there?"

"That would be wonderful."

"I'd be willing to up your salary and pay for all the ingredients you'd need."

"Thank you, so, so much Joan. Thank you."

"It's not a problem. I think Anton's in the kitchen sorting out the food for late breakfast, so if you want to go see if he has anything for you to do before your shift starts, that would be wonderful."

"Thank you, Joan." Kitty stands and Joan extends her hand.

"Let's shake on it."

* * *

**A/N **So...I'm sorry for the late update. I really, really am. The network has been playing up like nobody's business at home, so I've had funny Internet connections on and off for the last few days. But here's the update! What do you think of the development in the Miles situation? And is that enough Kitmas for you? Also, _shameless _self-promotion, but I've written a couple of little Harry Potter oneshots, the first of which has been posted, and if you want to read it, I'd love to hear from you! I _promise _the next chapter will be up before Tuesday! N xxx


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

"Your husband has replied."

"I'd gathered as much." Kitty twists her hands in her lap. The cast is off now, thank God, it was so difficult trying to do anything at work with it adhered to her wrist like a neon sign, her co-workers forever bustling over and taking heavy loads from her arms or helping her lift things to the top shelves that always seemed miles away. She supposes she should have been grateful that her boss wasn't firing her because she wasn't physically fit to do some of the work, but being helped always incurs a debt and the ones that aren't paid off with money are the hardest to pay back. "What does he say?"

"You can read it, if you like."

Rosalie's face is a study in the art of being expressionless.

"Thank you."

Kitty takes the sheaf of papers, trying to still the trembles in her hand. She skims through the text, dread sinking like a stone in place of her heart. No, no…but when did she expect anything different?

"So the long and short of it is that your husband has decided to defend the divorce. He claims that you are making up the charges of abuse in order to weasel him out of his money, and therefore he refuses to pay any settlement or to give up your daughter."

Kitty bites down hard on her feelings at the mention of Sylvie. Sylvie. Her baby. It's been seven weeks now, and even with trying to be strong and carry on, dark eyes filled with tears and that beautiful, stubborn pout that she _always _wore when she didn't get her way haunt Kitty's dreams.

"So where do we go now?" she manages to ask.

Rosalie takes back the wad of paper and puts it carefully down on the desk.

"First of all I need to ask you, Kitty, is there any chance that your husband would hurt your daughter?"

"Why?"

"Because I've been looking things up and talking to other solicitors, you see, and if there is a chance, we are allowed to get the police involved."

Suddenly, Kitty finds there are tears stinging at the rims of her eyes, and she ducks her head. "So what you're saying is that I could have avoided this whole mess had I phoned the police during the time that I lived with him?"

"Don't cry, it's alright."

"I'm not crying." She swipes angrily at the tears. To her credit, Rosalie drops the sympathy, pretends not to notice.

"Alright. But is there a chance?"

"No. He never hurt her, and he wouldn't. I suppose in a perverse way he loves her, but he was so often away that she never really knew him. He was always a stranger to her."

"Okay. So what we do is that we have a First Appointment, which you both need to attend and I'm trying to organise here in Glasgow under the pretext that you don't have enough money to travel to London. That involves the two of you, your husband's solicitor and myself and the judge, and it's mainly about finances though there will be a bit of talk about residence of your little girl."

"I have to face him again?"

"Yes, you do."

"Am I allowed to bring anyone else in with me?"

"No, not into the courtroom itself unless they're a relative."

"He's my neighbour. My friend."

"He can wait outside for you."

"Okay."

"So, before the First Appointment, we need to fill in a stack of forms," Rosalie even manages a little eye roll. "This is one of the perks of my job. So many forms."

A laugh bubbles up over Kitty's lips, and she smiles. "I don't do that, luckily, apart from order forms."

"What do you do again?"

"I've just changed my job. I'm running a cake decorating business now, as well as doing a few odd shifts at the old café. I handed in my notice at the Co-Op this morning."

"Well done," Rosalie graces her with a rare smile. She should smile more often, Kitty thinks. It lifts the lines from her face, makes her look younger, happier, carefree. "That's quite an achievement, setting up your own business."

"I know. I keep looking at it and praying that it won't come crashing down about my ears. So, forms."

"Forms."

* * *

When she gets back to the flat that evening to do a little more work on a cake due for two days' time – a ladybird for a little boy turning two – Thomas is sitting at her kitchen table, flipping through a medical journal. It's such a usual sight nowadays, to come in from work and find one or both of them inhabiting her kitchen like it's their very own burrow, drinking her coffee and eating off-cuts that she's taken to leaving mugs on the sideboard next to spotty tin full of the things she has no use for. It's like she has two personal dustbins, though Miles is much fussier than Thomas about what he will and won't eat.

"Hello," she says, dumping her leather handbag on the table. It's Gucci, very expensive, though after almost a year carrying the junk she keeps in it about, it's starting to look very sad and dog-eared like an old, much beloved teddy. "Good day?"

"Relatively." She washes her hands, enjoying the way the soap explodes into green bubbles on her skin. "Kitty?"

"Yes."

He sounds uncertain. "My hospital are holding their annual event soon…"

"What sort?" she asks absentmindedly.

"A ball."

"Okay."

"I was wondering if you'd like to come with me. As friends. If you're free of course."

She glances over her shoulder at him – the tips of his ears glow endearingly, the same colour as the icing on the ladybird cake that she's lifted down from its cupboard. Her heart hammers a pattern against her ribs. It's been so long since someone she likes – she's finally admitted it to herself, she has gone head over heels for her brusque, wonderful neighbour – has asked her out. It's be so long since she's been free from ropes and chains binding her to her life of torment and boredom to say yes.

And so she does. And his smile is like the dawn, hopeful and full of promise.

* * *

Late that night there's a knock on her door. Kitty uncurls herself stiffly from her sofa where she's been watching utter rubbish all evening after putting on another load of fairy cakes and finishing the ladybird. To be careful, she puts the chain on, but there's no need – it's only Flora huddled deep into a hoodie with tired circles draped languorously under her eyes.

"Flora, what are you doing here?"

"I need help…please, Kitty, can I come in?"

Kitty unlatches the chain and opens the door wide, letting Flora into her hall. Raindrops form damp dots on the grey fleecy material of Flora's hoodie, she's shivering. "Would you like a drink to warm up?"

"That would be great, thank you."

"Tea, coffee or hot chocolate? Tom brought some marshmallows round earlier, and I think I've got some cream…"

Kitty leads her into the kitchen and flips on the kettle, putting generous spoons of chocolate powder into her two favourite mugs. "What do you need help with?"

"I'm just…I'm…" Flora is stumbling for words, and Kitty turns to face her.

"Spit it out. The quicker you do it, the easier it is."

"I think I'm pregnant."

"What?"

"I just…I've been feeling sick and my time of the month hasn't come and I don't know what to do, I'm so scared, I don't want to phone my mother and Charlie's in Dorset still, he's about to leave for another tour of duty, and I know you've had a baby before, you've had Sylvie, what do I do?"

Kitty's head is whirling. She forces herself to take a deep breath, to put the mug of hot chocolate on the table next to Flora, to take her hands and smile reassuringly. "Have you taken a test?"

"I've got one, but I'm such a coward. I was too scared to take it on my own."

"You can use my bathroom, then. Do you want to go and do it now, then we can drink our hot chocolate whilst we're waiting for it to be ready."

"Okay." Flora sniffles, wipes the tears that tremble like dewdrops on her eyelashes. "It's just through here, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

She gets up, and Kitty is left alone clutching her blue mug with the flowers that Sylvie painted for her. Pregnant. The memories roll over her head, breaking like waves, and she remembers when she was pregnant with Sylvie, when Elliott was about to slap her and she threw her hands and screamed, 'Don't, you'll hurt the baby.' He had stalked away. She had had no sympathy from anyone, not when she was sick, retching over the toilet bowl, not when her ankles swelled like balloons, not when she was in the midst of giving birth and only the midwife was there to comfort her, to mop her brow.

It's not going to be like that for Flora if the test comes back positive. Kitty refuses to let anyone go through having a baby without anyone to lean on, she _refuses. _

And so when Flora comes back, nervous, jittery, she sits with her gently, and talks through options, possibilities.

"My mother thinks no child should be born out of wedlock," Flora admits. "She's a proper English lady, and I was going to be just like her, but then as I got older her ideas were too stifling and I had to get away."

"Fair enough," Kitty nods.

"Were your parents like that?"

"My mother quite a bit. My father not. My father was _wonderful._"

"Where is he now?"

"Dead. I think that test will be ready, don't you?"

Flora drains the dregs at the bottom of her mug. "I'm not ready for this."

"You are."

"Can you look at it first?"

"We'll look at it together, how about that?"

"Okay."

There's a pink line staring up at them. Flora sits down heavily on the toilet lid. "I really am. I'm really pregnant."

"Yes, you are."

"What happens now?"

"You make an appointment to see a doctor."

"Will you come with me?"

"Yes, if we arrange it around my job."

"Can I stay here tonight? I don't want to be alone."

It's going to be a drain, if Flora's going to be like this for nine months, but she was there when Kitty needed her for a cry, for helping with Sylvie, and Kitty knows she'll be damned if she doesn't take the opportunity to pay Flora back.

"Of course you can."

"I'm sorry to be such a bother."

"Flora, it's what friends are for."

* * *

**A/N Important! **Okay, so I've done quite a bit of research into divorces, but it may not be totally accurate, so give me some poetic license. What do you think of Tom's invitation? And Flora's news? I have a plan for Flora, never fear! :) I would love to get to fifty-five reviews this chapter - and if you amazing readers manage it, I'll update Thursday. Deal? N xxx


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

"So, when is this ball?"

Flora sits cross-legged on Kitty's bed, ducking around the reason for coming with the practised ease of a fish in a fishing river.

"Two weeks tomorrow."

"What are you going to wear?"

"I haven't given it much thought."

"Kitty, you've got to start thinking about it – two weeks is no time."

"Well, how about you come over on Saturday and we can be all girly then," Kitty hands her the phone firmly. "Come on. Get it over with."

"I'm scared."

"I know you are, but the quicker you do it, the quicker it'll be done."

Flora screws up her face for a second, then nods, taking a deep breath. Kitty sighs, sinking into the chair by the window and watching her friend. She's twenty-three, but acts more like a teenage girl when she's out of her classroom at St Francis' Primary, though Kitty supposes anything is a distraction from what's happening in Flora's life at the moment. They've been to a midwife together, and it turns out Flora's almost three months along already, due in early September. The news has settled her, and she's quite happily announced that she'll go to the next midwife appointment alone.

Flora brings the phone up to her ear, and Kitty watches darkness chase the colours of sunset behind the houses on the opposite side of the road. Joan wants more fairy cakes. They're selling so well that she's put in an order for double quantity, upped Kitty's pay even more, and whilst Kitty is oh-so-grateful that there is more money coming in, that the rent isn't so hit and miss anymore, thirty-six fairy cakes and three birthday cakes is almost too much. She goes to bed with hands dyed like a rainbow from all her food-colourings, and Miles or Flora are constantly picking sprinkles or bits of icing from her hair, and even Rosalie manages a smile if Kitty goes to see her with bright yellow smeared above one eyebrow from a sunset cake that someone wants for their father.

"Hi, Dad," Flora says suddenly, breaking Kitty out of her train of thought.

"Flora!" Kitty hears from the other end of the phone. She gets up slowly and leaves Flora to it, giving her a smile and a thumbs-up. She sometimes wishes her parents could see her now, could see her business flourishing, her life returning to normal, but her father is long buried below the dark, sticky earth, and last thing she knew, Elliott had consigned her mother to an old people's home.

She starts to mix up pale green icing, the sound of the spoon ringing softly against the glass and the colour streaking through the gloopy whiteness comforting her. The home-made fondant flowers and crystallised roses and violets are lined up on a baking tray like pink, purple and white soldiers, sugar glinting under the lights.

The door opens and shuts, and then Flora is leaning against the counter next to her as she smears perfect rounds of icing on top of the golden cakes that wait expectantly on a wire cooling rack. "How did they take the news?"

"Dad better than Mum," Flora admits. "Gosh am I glad it's over. Mum wants me to come home to have it, but I insisted that I have to stay here. I'll have to subject my kids to a supply teacher when I actually have the baby, but I'm damned if I do it any time before."

"Fair enough."

"These are looking amazing," she says, looking over the cakes. "Do you want me to help? I'm not very good at icing, but I can put the decorations on top."

"That would be great, thank you," Kitty smiles at her. "The violets go on white icing, the fondant flowers on green and the roses on pink."

"Cool."

They spend the rest of the afternoon with the cakes until they're all ready to be taken down to the café, and Flora has to go and do lesson plans for the next day.

"Have you managed to get through to Charlie yet?" Kitty asks as she dries her hands, following Flora to the door.

"No, but I'm not worried. The reception tends to be crap – we usually write letters and if he's busy they don't come all that often."

"Have you written to him?"

"Oh, of course. Ages ago. I'll probably get a reply pretty soon."

"Okay, then."

"What time shall I come round on Saturday?"

"Four o'clock?"

"See you then."

Then Flora is ducking around the bannister and disappearing in a whirl of loose auburn hair and grey hoodie, and Kitty is about to shut the door when a voice calls, "Miss Trevelyan, just the person I wanted to see."

Mrs Quayle appears on the stairs leading up to the next floor – the flats owned by her and her brother, who Kitty has never actually set eyes on in all the months she's been here. Miles is of the opinion that he doesn't even exist, he's just a story made up by a crazy old woman. Kitty had snorted when he told her this, and Tom had told them both to shut up because he was trying to work.

"Hello," Kitty says, instantly on her guard. It can't be about the rent, can it? She's paid for the month already and…

"It's nothing to worry about dear, it's only that I've heard rumours of your new business."

"Yes?"

"Well, I don't like business being conducted from my flats. People coming and going and all of that, it disturbs the other residents."

"It's only me, Mrs Quayle, there are no other people."

"Your clients?"

"Oh."

"I can give you a couple of weeks to find a new place from which to run your venture – it is very commendable, Miss Trevelyan – but otherwise you'll have to find elsewhere to rent."

"Oh, okay," Kitty manages. "I'll see if I can sort something out."

"Good, good. Have a nice evening." Mrs Quayle beams and goes on her way, and Kitty shuts the door, her legs shaking like she's battling against a gale-force wind intent on picking her up and throwing her hundreds of miles away. There was nothing in the contract about this, and it's hardly like there are thousands of people trying to worm their way into her flat, it's just the few clients, Grace Singh sometimes bringing Julia over to help, Flora, and her neighbours…

She sinks to the floor, her back against the smooth wood of the door. Why, _why _does it never rain but pour? Why does everything have to happen at once?

* * *

**A/N **I know this is short, I know this is a filler, but it came to its natural end. The next update will either be tomorrow evening or Saturday morning, depending on my WiFi connections and all of that - I would really, really love to hear from all of you! Also, the cakes Kitty makes are on my blog on Tumblr. They're just the basic BBC Good Food recipe. N xxx


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

"So you've moved operations to the café for a while," Thomas says, pushing aside his piles of paperwork to sit down opposite her.

"Yes. Joan's been really good about it, but I can't impose for much longer. I wish Mrs Quayle wasn't so…" she waves her hands, searching for a word in the labyrinth that is her mind nowadays.

"Vexing?" A voice calls from the front hall, and there is a laugh. A very female laugh.

"I didn't know you had such a large vocabulary, Miles!" Thomas calls teasingly. "It must be all the reading you do."

Kitty turns a laugh into a sneeze as Miles appears in the kitchen doorway, towing a woman with brown hair that frizzes out of a ponytail. He only ever reads compulsory medical journals, his favourite book – Tarzan and the Apes – and the local newspaper which isn't famous for its quality of writing.

"I take great offense at that, Thomas Gillan. This is Helen. Helen, that lout over there is my flatmate, Tom, and this is Kitty, our neighbour."

"Hi," she says, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Hello," Kitty smiles back. "It's lovely to meet you at long last."

Thomas murmurs a greeting, and goes back to the conversation at hand. "So, you see if you can find a shop somewhere."

"A shop?" Miles looks confused, pulling out a chair for Helen and leaning against the sideboard. "What's all this about a shop?"

Kitty explains quickly, and Miles pulls a face. "I always knew she was a cow."

"Miles," Helen says reprovingly, and he sighs.

"Landladies aren't the nicest of characters usually. Remember the one we had at university, Tom, that awful…"

"Miles, we're trying to help Kitty, not to reminisce about Mrs Crecy."

"I'm not sure if I have enough money to rent a shop, though. The solicitor is costing me enough at the moment – I can't even think about anything else."

"See if Joan will let you use the café until it's all over then," Miles points out sensibly. "And after that you can look for a little shop in the centre of town."

"Okay, sure," Kitty runs her hands through her hair, glancing over towards Helen. "Sorry about all this."

"It's okay," Helen smiles. "We did just walk in and interrupt your conversation."

Kitty smiles and glances at the clock next to the fridge. Five minutes to four. "Shit," she mutters under her breath. "I'd love to stay, but I've got a friend coming over in five minutes."

"Who?" Miles asks.

"Flora. She's decided she wants to help me choose what I'm going to wear for the ball," Kitty rolls her eyes fondly, and Miles smirks in Thomas' direction.

"You're just going to tease him like that? No hints?"

"Miles!"

"Come on, you don't want to be late for Flora." Thomas' cheeks are tinged pink, and he gets up, pushing the chair across the linoleum in a savage screech of legs. He follows her into the hall with Miles explaining loudly in the background that the two of them are _going on a date. _Idiotic best friend. Why can't he leave things well alone?

"Sorry about that," Thomas says. Kitty smiles again.

"It's Miles, would we expect him to be anything else than insufferable?"

"I heard that!"

A laugh hangs in the air between them, and then before she even thinks through what she's doing, she reaches up to give Thomas a quick hug, his warmth searing through her like a brand. "See you soon."

"See you," he says, and then she's gone, back into her own flat, and he's left standing there like a prince in a story, lost at the top of a staircase with a glass slipper in his hands.

* * *

There's a message waiting on her phone, and she scoops it up, flicks through to find it idly. It's from Rosalie.

_First Appointment booked. 17__th__ of March at four thirty._

Kitty's hand flies to her throat. The seventeenth of March? That's the ball, she can't do it on the day of the ball, she can't go and dance and make merry and smile with Thomas if there's the shadow of her husband looming over her that very afternoon, she can't, she can't…

"Hello?" Flora's voice echoes from the letterbox. "Are you going to let me in?"

Kitty puts down her phone on the kitchen table. "Yeah, just coming!"

Flora's smile is like a sunny day. "How are you?"

"It's only been two days," Kitty says, hugging her friend back. "How are you feeling?"

"The sickness is going away."

"Heard from Charlie?"

"No, not yet. If I haven't had a letter soon, I'll phone."

"Okay."

"What's wrong? You look like a wet weekend."

Kitty shakes her head. "Nothing."

"I do know when you're lying."

"The First Appointment for my divorce is the day of the ball. Four thirty. Rosalie has said that it shouldn't last more than half-an-hour, but I can't get back here from the courts to get ready and get to the venue for seven thirty."

"Come to mine. We'll take all your stuff there beforehand and I'll sit in my car with my lesson plans whilst you go in and kick ass."

Kitty chuckles. "Me, kicking ass? More like Rosalie kicking ass."

"You and Rosalie both, then. Come on. Unveil your wardrobe.

Kitty leads her into the bedroom, and pulls open the wardrobe door, turning to find Flora has settled herself quite happily against the pillows. "Go on, then, what do you have?"

"I have three options – there's this one," she pulls the red and lace one out, holding it against herself for Flora to see. "I wore it to Sylvie's princess party when she wanted me to dress up."

"Has Thomas seen it?"

"Yes."

"Okay, last resort, then."

"Why? What's wrong…"

"Kitty, you want to wear something different. He's seen you in that, try something else."

"Then I have black trousers and a…"

"No trousers."

Kitty raises an eyebrow, and Flora gives her a pointed look, two wills clashing in the air amid silver smoke and gunfire. "You don't wear trousers to a fancy ball."

"Fine, fine."

"What's the last option, then?"

"This." Kitty pulls her last dress from its wrapper, touching the blush-coloured tulle carefully as though it will tear under her fingertips.

"Oh, Kitty," Flora breathes. "That's _beautiful! _Where did you get it?"

"It was a gift, from a little company I did some work for," Kitty says, staring at it. She's never actually worn it, never thought any of the institutions or parties Elliott dragged her to were worthy of it, but when the time came she couldn't bear to leave it behind either.

"That one, definitely that one."

"That was easy."

"Well, it's perfect, isn't it? Jewellery, make-up, shoes?"

"You're really going full-force, aren't you?"

"Everything has to be perfect. You're going to a ball with someone you really like. I've never been to a ball, apart from the dance at my old school and university balls, but they don't really count because I only stayed for half an hour at my university balls. I didn't have a date either. What shoes are you going to wear?"

"Black heels, probably."

"Which ones?"

"These."

"Can you walk in them all evening? Dance? Are you going to be taller than him in them?"

"Flora, I was a model. Of course I can walk in heels for hours on end."

"Are you going to be taller than him in them?" Flora repeats.

"Have you seen Thomas lately? He's really rather tall. I'd be just a little shorter in them, I guess."

"Perfect. Jewellery."

"I don't need a necklace."

"Fair enough. Earrings?"

"Here? These ones?"

"Okay, sure. I think we've got it sorted. Do you want to pack everything up now, and we can take it to mine?"

"Great. Thank you so much for this, Flora."

"It's no problem."

* * *

She's been debating for days whether to ask Thomas to come to the First Appointment with her, to be with her, because she knows that she can't face Elliott without support. Finally she decides to take the plunge. The Monday before the ball, they're walking back from the supermarket together, bags weighing down their hands and talking about everything that's going on in the world at the moment when she balls up her nerve and says, "Tom?"

"Yes?"

"Rosalie finally told me when the First Appointment was."

He just looks at her, and she wants to steal some of his calm, some of his control, because she's scared already and showing fear in front of Elliott is like stabbing yourself in front of a shark. The blood makes them go for you.

"It's the day of the ball. Four-thirty."

"Can you still make the ball? We can call it…"

"No, don't you dare. I can definitely still make the ball. I was just wondering if you didn't have an operation or a meeting that day, if you could come with me so I wasn't so alone…"

"Kitty, I'm really sorry but I do have a major operation scheduled," he puts down the shopping bag at the stairs to their flats, reaching out to touch her hand gently. "I would re-arrange it, but the man's been waiting far too long already and there's a danger his condition could become life-threatening."

"I understand," she says, choking back the lump in her throat. "Honestly, I understand."

And then she goes, up the stairs and into her flat and she's cursing herself for being so selfish, because of course he has no time to come to her divorce hearing, he's got to do his operations. She can't fault him for that, it's his job, there are people whose very lives depend on his work.

She feels so ashamed for asking.

* * *

**A/N **So, what do you think of meeting Helen? And Flora/Kitty's girly night in? I'm on a creative writing course atm, so I'm not sure when the next update will be. Between Monday and Wednesday, probably. And since next chapter is la grande ball, I'm going to be a review-whore and ask if you lovely people could possibly get me up to seventy reviews? Maybe? I would be your servant forever! N xxx

P.S. Guest, thank you for your review, and Elizabeth Brough if I very ungratefully forgot to thank you last chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

Flora's car smells like burnt plastic and old sandwiches, and Kitty gingerly moves a stack of books out of the way. "Sorry about the mess," Flora breezes around to the driver's side, opening the door, sliding in gracefully. "I'm in the process of clearing it out."

"It's alright," Kitty says, sitting down carefully and straightening her suit jacket. Rosalie said to dress formally. It makes the right impression.

"Are you nervous?"

"Terrified," she admits. Both Miles and Tom hugged her this morning before they left for work, telling it that it would all go fine, but she's not sure. They don't know her husband, they don't know what he's _like_. The chilly terror that pervades deep into her chest whenever she sees him, the fear like a thousand needles drilling into her skull.

"I think you're really brave," Flora says unexpectedly as they pull out into the street, soft March light raining down from a grey-blue sky.

"Me, brave?" Kitty scoffs. "Not likely."

"No, don't take that tone. You're brave because you're scared and you're still facing up to it."

"Is that something Charlie told you?"

Flora nods. "He hasn't written, still. I'm getting worried, you know, and I've been phoning his mother but she doesn't know either and I know it's probably all stupid and probably because he's kept really busy out there and all of that, but I just…"

"Flora, it's not stupid to worry. If I were in your situation, I'd be frantic by now."

"I'm going to phone his regiment's headquarters soon. See if they can do anything."

"Hmm. Does Charlie's mother know about the baby?"

"Oh, yes. I told her. She's completely thrilled – none of the reservations mine has about us not being married." Flora laughs. "She did tell me that she felt too young to be becoming a grandmother already."

Kitty manages a smile, but they're already turning off, into the court's car-park and there's a sleek black car that she recognises all too well and two men with _cameras…_

She grips Flora's arm. "I can't do this."

"You can." Flora gives her a level look. "You can do this. I promise. Look, there's Rosalie – she's waiting."

"You'll be right out here?"

"I'll be right out here. Go in, get it done, then the princess has got to get to her ball."

"Thank you for this. Really. Thank you."

"It's no problem. Now go."

* * *

"How are you feeling?" Rosalie asks, clipping down the steps in her heels to meet Kitty. The men with cameras are whispering quietly to each other.

"I'm fine," Kitty says, pulling a wan smile from somewhere inside herself.

"It'll only be half an hour."

"Yes, I know."

"Come on, then." Rosalie shoots a dirty look at the cameramen, and puts an arm around Kitty's shoulders, hustling her into the squat, brick building and along a labyrinth of corridors. They stop outside a door, where two other people are waiting for them.

"Katherine."

"Elliott." Kitty clenches her fists at her sides, takes in slow, deep breaths, the fear curdling deep in her stomach. She-cannot-show-it-she-must-not-show-it.

He doesn't say anything more, just stood there, looking at her until a clerk appears, and opens the door in a creaking of polish-scented air. "The judge is ready for you."

Kitty takes another deep breath, and follows him in.

* * *

Flora is sitting with her feet up on the dashboard and one hand on her stomach. It's just about started to show, and she's so incredibly excited to feel the baby growing and swelling beneath her hands, but worry for Charlie is tugging insistently at her thoughts. It's been weeks. Weeks and weeks and weeks and he always writes back within two weeks, never this long. She sighs, and looks down at the lesson plan resting on her knees. Numeracy using the counting cubes and the times-tables square…at some point she's going to have to talk to Roland about maternity leave and cover, he's been giving her looks lately as if he can read the signs of her pregnancy in her face, which he probably can having had two children himself.

There's a tap on the windscreen, and the two men with cameras have ventured closer, standing by her window, greedy expressions plastered across their faces.

"What is it?" she asks, rolling down the window to let in the icy March breeze.

"How do you know Mrs Katherine Vincent?"

"I'm not answering any questions," Flora says firmly, but then they're talking over each other and snapping pictures of her, and she puts her hands up to cover her face, but then a male voice is shouting at them to leave her alone.

She emerges from the safety of her hands to see a young man standing there, glaring at the retreating backs of the reporters. "Sorry about that," he tells her. "Damned photographers, we don't usually get them here but…" He seems to check himself, as if wondering if he's said too much.

"It's okay, I'm Kitty Vincent's friend. It feels so strange to be using the other surname for her, I'm used to calling her Kitty Trevelyan."

"Okay."

After a moment of awkward silence, she extends her hand through the window. "Flora Marshall."

"Peter Foley," he says, shaking it.

"So what do you do? I assume you work for the court in some way."

"Junior clerk. I'm attached to Mrs Vincent's case, actually, because I know her solicitor."

"Are they coming out soon?"

"Yes, shouldn't be more than a couple of minutes."

"Great."

"How do you know her?"

"I used to teach her daughter. She was in my class at the school where I work."

"A teacher?"

Flora glances down at the lesson plans again. "Yes, a teacher. Primary 2b."

"Hmm. Couldn't stand the thought of all those children myself, but each to their own."

The back doors of the court open, then, and Kitty comes out, clutching her handbag and walking as though she's aged a hundred years in the space of half an hour. Without a word to Peter Foley, who steps back as she approaches, she slides into the passenger seat.

"Bye, then," Flora calls to him, putting her lesson plans back in her bag and starting the car. As soon as they're on the road, she turns to look at Kitty.

"How did it go?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

They spend the rest of the drive to Flora's flat smothered in thick silence, and it's not until they're safely ensconced in the bedroom with the dress hanging on the front of Flora's door and make-up aligned on the table next to their hot chocolate and toast that Kitty starts to cry.

"Kitty?" Flora says, putting an arm around her friend's heaving shoulders.

"I'm so stupid, I should just go back to him then I wouldn't have this mess!"

"Don't you dare talk like that."

"But I'm right. I'm making such a fuss over this, and if I dropped the proceedings I'd see Sylvie again, God, Flora, I miss her so much, I want my baby back."

"You will get Sylvie back. I promise. None of us are going to let that vile, abusive scumbag keep your daughter away from you."

Kitty sniffs, dabs at her eyes with the proffered tissue. "You must think I'm so weak for breaking down like this all the time."

"It's hardly all the time, Kitty, honestly. And in any case, none of us have never had to live with what you're going through – you have every right to break down once in a while."

"Thank you."

"It's no problem. Now, come on – it's half six already. You don't want to keep the prince waiting."

"I'm hardly his princess."

"I beg to differ. The way that man looks at you Kitty, it's like you're the sun, moon and stars all rolled into one."

Kitty laughs weakly. "Okay, then, fairy godmother."

* * *

It's seven forty-five, and Thomas is still waiting. Fifteen minutes is hardly late in polite society, but he can't help but worry that something went wrong at the First Appointment, that something happened and he wasn't there to help Kitty when she needed him.

Yelland has already started making loud comments, and the shrill woman in the turquoise dress on his arm only eggs him on, her laughs and titters like fuel for his fire. It's only fifteen minutes into this whole damned thing, and already Thomas feels like throwing a well-deserved punch into Yelland's face.

Twenty minutes. Twenty-five minutes. Half an hour. Forty minutes.

"Do you really have a date, or is it just a figment of your imagination?"

Thomas doesn't deign that one with a reply, but Yelland continues and the anger is lava, rising in his throat.

"Because you just don't have the charm to attract the ladies. There's an art to it that an oaf like you won't ever be able to get down properly."

Just as those words have left Yelland's mouth, there's a gentle pressure on his arm and he turns to see Kitty, smiling, the first time he's ever seen her shy. "Hi," she says. "I'm really sorry I was late, the appointment ran over then you know what Flora's like."

He can't even speak. She looks like she's stepped from the pages of a fairy story that his father used to read to him and his two sisters when they were little, there are no words that describe how _beautiful _she is. Hair pinned up, bits straggling loose, the dress hugging her slender frame.

Even Yelland has fallen completely silent, gawping.

"It's alright," he manages, and she beams at him. "Shall we dance?"

"Yes, I'd love that."

He takes her hand, winding his fingers through hers and leading her out onto the chessboard floor of the ballroom to join the other couples dancing, whirling like a scene from a long-lost era. She clasps his hand, and they start to waltz, and inside he is giving Miles a thousand thanks for teaching him to dance in their university days.

"Who was that you were talking to?"

"That was Yelland."

"The meddling git?"

He laughs at that. "Yes, the meddling git. His face was priceless, Kitty, I don't think I've ever seen him so silent that he couldn't even get an obnoxious word out."

She smiles again, her hand light on his shoulder as they turn in time with the music. "This is lovely. You hospital don't do things by halves, do they?"

"No, they don't. They're very into the whole doing things properly, so when they say a ball, they mean a ball."

"Evidently."

The music changes, then, and they retire to the side-lines with two glasses of gently-bubbling champagne, watching the other couples, Thomas pointing out people to her. "That's Dr Purbright, he's my boss, and I'm assuming that's his wife Jane. He talks about her a lot."

"It's really good to be putting names to faces," Kitty says, leaning a little against his shoulder, and there's warmth trickling down his spine from her closeness, the smile that hasn't faded all evening.

They're just about to take to the floor again when Yelland appears, sans the woman in turquoise, weaving slightly on his feet with his sharp piggy eyes fixed on Kitty. "You don't want to be dancing with him. Come along, be a good girl and dance with a fellow who'll show you a good time."

Kitty's smile has completely faded, and Thomas is glaring, the anger rising onto the tip of his tongue, a flight of birds desperate to take to the wing. "Leave us alone, Yelland."

"Oh no. He's not any good for you. Insanity runs in the family, you see, leave it several years and he'll end up just like his darling old mum."

Before Thomas even knows it, his fist is flying and connecting with Yelland's nose, blood spraying in a fountain of crimson, and then he's turning and marching through the throng of guests who have all stopped to stare, ducking his head past the waiters and the doormen and out into the cold night air, the stars like freckles against the face of the sky.

"Tom, Thomas wait!"

The sound of clip-clopping heels. He doesn't stop, keeps walking, the river winding like a spool of silver-black thread to his right.

"Thomas Gillan, wait! Please!"

The tone of the voice stops him dead in his tracks, and he turns to see Kitty coming towards him as fast as her high heels will allow, radiant in the soft moonlight that falls from between the streaks of clouds. She doesn't say anything as she approaches, leaning on the rail overlooking the river with her eyes fixed on him.

He looks down for a second. "You want to know about my mother."

"Not unless you want to tell me," she says quietly. "That was quite an impressive punch."

He shrugs. "She had depression, for almost all of my childhood. When I was eleven, she committed suicide. My sister, Aggie, found her, lying in her and my father's room, and the sheets were soaked with blood and there was _nothing _we could do."

"Thomas…" Kitty says softly, taking his hand.

"I didn't understand. I was only eleven. I'd done first aid at school, I put her in the recovery position and phoned an ambulance and begged her to stay with us, but she was already gone, and I couldn't save her.

She says his name again, and there are tears swimming in her dark eyes, tears for his pain, and how the hell did he ever meet a woman as remarkable as Kitty Trevelyan?

"I suppose that's when I decided I wanted to be a doctor. Only God knows how Yelland found out about it. Pretty much you, Miles and my family are the only ones that know."

"All we need to say about Yelland is that as well as having a broken nose, he now also has a slapped cheek," Kitty says fiercely.

"You slapped him?"

"Yes, of course. No-one can get away with saying things like that."

He smiles, reluctantly almost, but then the barriers break and he puts his arms around her, holding her close, he can smell her perfume like spring air and sunshine. "I'm not sure if I've managed to tell you how incredible you look tonight," he tells her.

"Thank you," she looks up at him, her eyes like an oil spill, shimmering with colours, and he cups her face gently in one hand, and then before he can talk himself out of it, leans down and kisses her. She wraps her arms around his neck, and kisses back. She tastes like champagne, and her body is so warm against his, and her dress rustles.

The moon looks down on their entwined figures, and smiles.

* * *

**A/N **I'm sorry for the wait, but here's an absolute monster of a chapter. What do you think? The ball? The kiss? I know, I was so excited to write this, and now it's finally happened. I'd love to hear from _everyone_. Can you do that for me? And Guest, thank you for your kind review! N xxx


	14. Chapter 14

**Fourteen**

They amble the long way home, hand-in-hand under the amber glow of the streetlights, winding through backstreets, but when they reach the door to their block, neither of them are ready to let go, so they walk back down to the river and sit on the footbridge, feet dangling over the edge.

"When did you first realise?" she asks suddenly, leaning her head against his shoulder.

He laughs, softly, quietly. "I would say the first day, I suppose. You came up the stairs with Sylvie and I don't know, it just happened. You?"

"I don't even know, really. A long time. Definitely since after…Sylvie was taken. It made me realise that people did care about me, because apart from my father, no-one really did."

"What was he like?"

"Boisterous. Loud. He was always throwing me up into the air and catching me again, or spinning me around. He always had time for us, my brother and I, he was always there during my teenage years, more than my mother, really. She was always 'at tea' with one of her friends or busy with her very posh job."

She looks up at him. "I guess you want to know how I ended up married to Elliott, don't you?"

"Yes, if you want to tell me."

"Dad had a lot of debts, but none of us actually realised it until after he died. It was so sudden, a heart-attack at the age of fifty-three and then he was gone, and Elliott Vincent was the person he owed the most money too. We couldn't pay it off without selling everything, so Elliott decided that he would be generous and let us off the hook…if I were to marry him."

"That sounds like something out of an Austen or Bronte book."

"It does, rather, doesn't it? He just wanted a pretty, biddable trophy wife to show off to the cameras and when I turned out to be anything but biddable, well, you know what happened."

They sit in silence that wraps comfortingly around them like a blanket. "You have your sisters, right?" she asks after a while.

"Yes. Aggie and Edme."

"What are they like?"

"Aggie's twenty-one. Last year of university. Studying Marine Biology. Edme's an archaeologist."

"You've gone quite separate routes, haven't you?"

"Yes, we have. What did your brother end up doing?"

Kitty crinkles her nose. "Working in the City. I couldn't think of anything more boring, but he's happy because he's made for life. Incredibly rich, incredibly stuck-up sometimes, and I haven't spoken to him since I came here."

"What's he called?"

"George."

He leans down and kisses her again, wrapping his arms around her. She marvels at how, at last, a missing piece of her life has slotted into place like it's been there all along.

* * *

It's four o'clock in the morning by the time they get in, holding hands and climbing the stairs to their floor.

"Goodnight," he says. "Even though it's actually morning."

She smiles up at him. "I had a wonderful time. Thank you."

"It's no problem."

They kiss again, a slow, tender, sweet kiss that makes warmth burn in the pit of her stomach, and then part ways, going into their separate flats. He can't stop smiling as he tiptoes his way into the kitchen, pulling off his suit jacket and draping it over a chair.

"How was it?" Miles' voice is heavy with sleep, and Thomas glances up to see him standing in the doorway in his pyjamas.

"Did you wait up for me?"

"No. I woke up. You're grinning like an idiot, how was it?"

"Great, thank you."

"Tell me."

"I want to go to sleep."

"Tom, come on."

"Can't we do this in the morning?"

"No. Tell me."

"Fine. Kitty and I danced, I punched Yelland, we kissed. Is that alright?"

"You punched Yelland? You _kissed her_?"

"I'll explain it when I've had some sleep. Good night."

He makes his escape into the bedroom, shutting the door on Miles' protests and still thinking about the way Kitty's lips felt on his.

* * *

It's early in the morning when Flora's phone rings, shrill and insistent and she groans, rolling over to get it from her bedside table and wiping the sleep out of her eyes. She picks it up and holds it to her ear.

"G'morning Nancy."

"Flora, I've got some bad news."

Those words make Flora wake up like caffeine has just been injected into the crook of her arm.

"What? What's happened to Charlie?"

"He's…he's…" Nancy starts to cry, and Flora feels sick.

"What is it?"

"He's been caught in an attack out there. They can't tell me much, but he's in a critical condition and…"

"No," Flora says, one hand flying to the rise of her belly. Fingers are tightening around her heart. "No, that's not right, that's not right, no…"

"They're bringing him in to Glasgow because that's where his regiment was based. Can I come up and stay with you?"

"Yes, of course you can."

"Flora, he's alive. That's all we can think about now."

Then Nancy puts the phone down, Flora puts her head on her knees and begins to sob.

* * *

She sleeps until one in the afternoon, then gets up to go to the café to work on her cakes. Joan and Anton are both in the kitchen, sorting lunch for the patrons scattered around the little checked tables, and Kitty smiles in greeting, ties on her apron, gets her things out of the cupboard and starts to work.

This cake is a twenty-first birthday cake for Grace and Amar's niece, and she tries to focus on cutting the little shapes out of fondant, piping carefully in blue onto the smooth white icing, but all she can think about is last night, last night, the dancing, the talking, the _kissing…_

"You look happy this afternoon," Joan says at about three o'clock when business has died down a little. "Any particular reason?"

Kitty laughs. "No, yes, kind of."

"That's an interesting answer," Anton chips in from across the room. "No, yes, kind of."

"I had the ball."

"Oh, yes, the ball! I completely forgot about that. How was it?"

"Lovely. It was so nice."

"Is that all we're going to get?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, it must have been wonderful if you're smiling like this today. Can you make another two dozen cakes once you're done with that, they're honestly selling like nobody's business."

* * *

**A/N **I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry! I've been away again, and my original muse will not shut up and I know that's no excuse, but I'm really sorry for the late update. Just to let you know as well, I'm going to try and get this story finished by next week because then I go back into a very busy school life with loads of homework and whatnot, but yeah, I can't apologise enough for the late update. N xxx

P.S. Review!


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

It's an ambush waiting to happen. When Thomas wakes that afternoon, Miles is hanging around the door, two cups of coffee in his hands.

"Tell me everything."

"For God's Sake, Miles, we're not bloody teenage girls."

"I am."

"Not unless you've had a sex change and taken aging potion, then no, you aren't." He wipes the sticky sleep out of his eyes and sits upright, accepting the proffered mug.

"I meant at heart. You're not leaving this room until you tell me everything."

Thomas rolls his eyes and groans, but Miles is as stubborn as a brick wall, and he's going to have to end up telling him at some point. So he does, fighting back a smile, and when he's finished, Miles looks extremely satisfied.

"I knew it! I knew the two of you liked each other!"

"Shout a bit louder, Miles, the good citizens of Switzerland might not have heard that."

"I'm so happy for you," Miles continues. "Now the two of you can come on double dates with me and Helen."

"Absolutely not."

"What's wrong with me and Helen?"

"Nothing, it's just…"

"You want Kitty all to yourself so you can snog her senseless without an audience."

"Miles!"

Miles laughs, and gets up off the end of Thomas' bed. "I'm sorry, but did you really expect me not to tease?"

"I'd hoped."

"A vain hope, my friend, a vain hope. Speaking of girlfriends, I'm off to see mine. Am I allowed to tell her?"

"Helen, yes, the rest of the world, no."

"What, do you really think I'd stop random people on the street and go 'hey, my flatmate's finally got together with our neighbour, isn't it brilliant?"

"I wouldn't put anything past you."

"It's fine, I won't. See you later. Say hi and congrats to Kitty for me."

"Okay. Give Helen my regards."

"Sure thing."

Then Miles is out of his bedroom, and there is the slamming of the door against its frame. Thomas lies back against the pillows again, and glances towards his phone, wondering if Kitty is awake yet.

...

The insistent ringing of her phone is what wakes her, a shrill tone needling against her ear. She supposes it's a good thing that necessity had forced her to become a light sleeper as she rolls over to answer it, feeling a blush heat up her cheeks as she sees the caller ID.

"Hey," she says, voice thick with the last traces of sleep.

"Hey. Did I wake you?"

She considers telling him no, but finds she can't be bothered. "Yes, but it's fine. I need to get up anyway. How are you?"

"Good. You?"

"Wonderful."

"Taking it a step further there." There is laughter in his tone. "Miles says congrats."

"Tell him thank you."

"Do you want to come round? I'll cook breakfast."

"Afternoon tea."

"Afternoon tea?"

"It's three o'clock. We've got to have afternoon tea with scones and cream and jam…"

"I don't know how to make scones."

"I do. We'll go down to the shop and get some."

"I'll see you in ten minutes, then."

She smiles into the phone. "Okay."

"Okay."

...

Nancy meets her in the hospital car park with a warm hug and a wan smile, a hand resting for an instant on the rise of Flora's stomach. "How are you?"

"Bearing up," Flora admits. "Have you heard anything else?"

"I've seen the doctor already, but I wanted to wait for you to see Charlie."

"What did the doctor say?"

"Flora…it's bad. There was an explosion, and the top of the armoured car crushed both his legs. They…they had to amputate."

"They what?"

"They had to amputate both his legs…I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry…"

Flora feels lightheaded for a second, then takes a deep breath, forces herself to calm down. "Shall we go and see him, then?"

"Okay."

...

Thomas is already waiting for her in the hallway as she comes out of her flat, locks the door behind her, pulling on her jacket and depositing the keys in her bag. She smiles up at him, almost shy, and he laces his fingers through hers. "Ready?"

"Yep."

They just head down to the co-op where Kitty used to work, ambling along and enjoying the weak spring sunshine, the warmth of each other's hands.

"So what do we need for afternoon tea?"

"Clotted cream. Do you have jam in your cupboard?"

"Yes, raspberry and strawberry."

"Good. Then all the basic baking ingredients. If you don't have them, I will."

"So just clotted cream then?"

"Yep, just clotted cream. I can't believe you've never had afternoon tea before. It used to be my favourite time of day."

"I'm Scottish, woman, not an English aristocrat."

"What do you eat on special occasions, then?"

"My dad makes a great haggis."

"Isn't it really disgusting?"

"No, on the contrary. It's delicious. I'll get him to make us some."

"I think I can live without it, quite honestly."

"I'll be telling you you said that when you've tasted it."

He smiles down at her, and she beams up, and they carry on their way.

...

Flora hovers at the end of Charlie's bed, feeling slightly faint. She's never liked hospitals, the smell that crawls under your skin or the sterile, clinical walls. She honestly wonders how Kitty's flatmates can bear to work in such conditions, no colour, no fun, no joy…just ill people and sadness.

The doctor is talking again, but all Flora can focus on are the stumps under the blankets where his legs were. Where his legs are supposed to be. It's not good, not good at all, but to her, it doesn't change anything. Charlie is still the man she's in love with, and he's still the father of her baby. She knows she'd follow him to the ends of the earth, but right now, she just wishes he'd wake up.

...

"Tah-dah!" Kitty puts the plate of scones on the worn table, settling herself into her chair and taking one and slathering it with cream and jam. "What do you think?"

Thomas puts down his knife, takes an experimental bite. "Not as good as haggis," he says.

"You can't say that! My scones are the best."

"Not as good as haggis."

"No, better than haggis."

"Not."

"Yes."

"Not."

"Yes." She laughs. "We're being so juvenile, just like Sylvie…"

She breaks off abruptly, still loath to think of her daughter.

"We'll get her back," Thomas says quietly. "We will."

When she kisses him, it's as soft as cream and as sweet as jam. Then she smiles. "Thank you."

**A/N So, for some reason the lines aren't working - oh well. I'm really sorry for the late update. I had writer's block, and I just want to say a huge, huge thank you to TofuQueen00 for helping me through it. You're marvellous, thank you! Another little shameless bit of self promotion - I'm writing a White Queen/ Wars of the Roses drabble series called Wild Violets, so if you watched it I'd be indebted if you could tell me what you think. Thanks to Guest for reviewing, and I'd love to hear from you this time around too! N xxx :)**


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